


Warming Spices

by Hanatamago



Series: So I Know [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Divergence: Time-Skip Events, Dark Magic, Depression, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Fluff, Graphic Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Past Attempted Suicide, Past established Relationship, References to Depression, Torture, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22257448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanatamago/pseuds/Hanatamago
Summary: “West?” The merchant clucked his tongue, “Nothing but war in those parts, boy. You got a death wish?”“No… Well, maybe a little.” Ashe climbed into the front seat of the cart, “There’s a place my friend used to tell me about in the west. I think I’d like to see it one day before I die.”After the battle of Garreg Mach, Ashe sets off on a journey to help villages all around the Kingdom that has suffered from the war, until fate leads him elsewhere.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Series: So I Know [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571335
Comments: 53
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some italics in communication (not internal thoughts) indicate speech/text in the Duscur language.

**Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1181**

Dedue,

I hope this letter finds you well. All the merchants are saying Fhirdiad is in chaos right now, so I really hope you’re safe! And I’m sure you’re keeping His Highness safe too! I hear there’s a lot of fighting, but it’ll pass in time, won’t it? I hope things calm down soon.

I can’t say much now, everything is moving so fast, and we’re so far south that news travels pretty slowly. Gaspard is being given over to Count Rowe. I don’t know if Lonato would have wanted this, but House Rowe is bigger,so they might be able to keep our people safe. There isn’t really anything I can do. I’m leaving with my brother and sister as soon as I can. I’m not sure where we’ll end up, but I’ll head north. Let’s find each other then. I miss you.

~~Stay safe~~  
~~Please be safe~~

I love you.

 _Your heart_ (did I spell that right?),  
Ashe

* * *

**Horsebow Moon, Imperial Year 1183**

He never wrote back. Though, Ashe was a hard man to find these days, so maybe he had. The message never would have gotten through. Ashe saw the truth of it when he ventured north to Fhirdiad. Chaos was an understatement, really. Even miles outside of the city walls, small farms and inns smoldered, long since set ablaze by infighting and Empire sympathists. In the old royal territory, Cornelia vied for power, first suggesting that Dimitri was unfit to rule, then a year later, accusing him of killing his own uncle in cold blood. His own kin! Dimitri never would have done something like that. Ashe knew it, everyone in their class would have known it, Professor included, but it didn’t matter much. It didn’t matter at all, really. 

Even before Cornelia controlled the Dukedom, the Kingdom had long lost control of its people. She was content to revel in the chaos and climb to her bloodstained throne with Edelgard’s support. ‘Lawfully’, she said. Cornelia claimed she’d do it lawfully, and so she flexed her power in a year-long mockery of a trial to drag Dimitri and his ancestors through the mud, saying that somewhere along the line, Loog’s blood must have lost its honor. When they did finally execute Dimitri, she called it ‘justice’. They never showed his body; they denied him a proper burial. They never once spoke of his faithful vassal who would have fought for his prince until the end. Did they even give him a chance to seek mercy? Pointless, of course. Ashe knew Dedue never would have bargained for his life. And that meant he knew that…

Ashe sent more letters, but they probably never made it through.

* * *

Burning crops sent smoke swirling in plumes above a small town at the edge of Fraldarius territory, bordering the Dukedom’s regime. Towns like this always got the worst of it - farming villages, border villages, those unlucky enough to fall into both categories. Cornelia’s strategy was to convince the townsfolk to ally with her for their own safety, rather than convince them she was the rightful ruler. The resistance only fought to liberate them, to restore the old Kingdom and reject Cornelia’s rule. Right and wrong… It was easy to say the resistance had the right of things, but that hardly mattered now. War is the enemy - not men, not crowns, not _crests_ \- and both sides shared blame for the violence.

Ashe once thought himself a knight. Supposedly, the peak of chivalry was to honorably, loyally serve a master and take up their cause for life. But Sir Gwendal was a knight, one of the greatest, and he and his lord sided with Cornelia. Loyalty was only part of a knight’s charge, Ashe knew that but… Frankly, he doubted if there were any masters left worth serving. Dimitri was dead, and though he was the rightful king, he had become slightly unhinged by the end of their academy days. The Professor vanished after the battle. Ashe hated to think of it, but they probably perished with the rest. Lonato…

Maybe Lonato was the only one who had the right of things. He fought for his beliefs despite impossible odds, and though he brought the fighting upon civilians, they were happy to fight for him. He had been such a good lord, such a caring man, and yet even he died. All those years, he kept his rebellion secret in hopes of protecting Ashe, and in the end, Ashe was powerless to save him in turn. But maybe there were others - other people he could still save and protect.

Town by town, village by village, Ashe tried to pick up the pieces of a shattered land. The farms burnt. Fine, Ashe could help replant them. Houses crumbled to the ground, Ashe could guard the townsfolk as they cut down new trees for lumber. He could help them bake hardtack and salt their scarce supplies of meat to last through the rebuilding efforts, he could plant a seed here and give everything he had to help it sprout. 

But he couldn’t bring back the people who died in someone else’s senseless war. He couldn’t give the children back their dead parents, or the parents back their dead sons and daughters. What a farce. Self-centered nobles played some sort of twisted game of chess while the commoners suffered on their behalf. They died at the front lines and starved in their razed villages, and suddenly a bed and provisions in exchange for their own lives seemed like too sweet a deal to pass up.

Ashe dismounted in the ruins of the old town square, saddlebags empty save for his weapons and tools. He’d given the remains of his own rations to the town, for he’d be moving on soon. He could hunt and forage on the way. A little girl from the village sat on the old, cracked stone of a once-magnificent fountain. A simple design, but an important point of pride for any small village. It was a centerpiece, a place for gathering, or it had been at one point. It was nearly deserted now. Tears streamed down the girl’s soot-stained face as she cradled a small bundle in her arms. 

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Ashe approached slowly, careful not to spook the girl. She snapped up at his voice, sniffling for a moment before she ran into his arms, far too trusting of a stranger. She hardly came up above his waist. A mess of ruddy cheeks and stringy, rust-colored hair, she was thin - too thin and too young. Seven winters behind her, at the very most, younger than Ashe had been. The war took its toll on commoners first.

Ashe took the little girl’s hand, quietly checking for any injuries she might have. He found a few scrapes on her knees, but nothing out of the ordinary. The girl sobbed and held out a tiny cloth doll. A princess, by the looks of it. Tiny diamonds were sewn into the skirt to decorate plain burlap fabric. The maker must have taken special care, and it was clearly well-loved. Ah, too well-loved. Straw spilled out of a gash in the back of her dress.

“Her insides are coming out!” She cried, “She’s gonna die, isn’t she?”

“Ah, her wounds look very serious,” Ashe cradled his chin in a hand, sizing up the severity of the cut, “But luckily, you’ve run into Fodlan’s finest healer just in the nick of time! We’ll save her!” He sat the little girl down on a nearby block of stone while he rummaged through his saddlebags to find a needle and a bit of salvaged thread.

“R-really?” She wiped away a few snotty tears and tucked her knees into her arms.

“I promise.” He sat down beside her with a determined nod. Carefully, Ashe slipped the thread into the eye of the needle. Hmm, quite a bit of the stuffing had fallen out. No wonder the girl was so panicked. If those really were her innards, she’d be long gone by now. Kind of a morbid thought. Ashe pulled a few crumpled bunches of straw from a nearby haystack, stuffing them into the empty pockets before he pushed the thread through the burlap.

“Oh!” The girl clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling a little yelp, “That must really hurt!”

“It does at first,” Ashe grimaced, “But sometimes it has to hurt a little before you can get better.” White cotton thread pierced through the other side of the fabric, pulling the torn sides together again. Not for the first time, Ashe wished he had more of Mercedes’ finesse with these things - sewing _and_ spouting bits of wisdom. She probably knew all the ways to sew her up without it showing, and she’d know the right thing to say now, too.

“She’s all better!” The little girl shot him a toothy grin as Ashe tied a final knot at the end of his stitches.

“It’s a miracle she survived.” Ashe handed the doll back to her, “I recommend a week of bed rest, at least! Make sure she doesn’t overwork herself, alright?”

“Thank you Mister…?” 

“Duran.” Ashe smiled. For now, he was no Sir Ubert, but the villages on his path would fondly recall Duran, the wandering caretaker and Buttermilk, his trusty chestnut steed.

“Thank you Mister Duran!”

“Where are your parents?”

“Off fighting dragons.” She sighed, “Granny says someone has to.” Dragons, huh? One day she would learn the truth of things, but it didn’t have to be today. She kicked at a pile of ash, frowning. “But I think the dragons are winning.”

* * *

Two creeks met in a fork three or so miles past the huge boulder with a cracked smile. The next village should be close. If Ashe cut across through here… He glanced down at the hastily scrawled map tucked into his cloak. An old ranger had sent him along with a map of the nearby woods as thanks for the meager food and medicinal herbs he’d been able to spare for their village. Though crudely drawn, the few features marked in charcoal were more than enough to guide Ashe’s expedition north. Two and a half years, he’d been on the road; maps were a rarity, but a real luxury. In the beginning, he’d meandered about too often, adjusting course until he found the safest place to cross a river, only to learn there had been a bridge hidden away much closer in the opposite direction!

These days, he didn’t get lost as easily, not that it had ever been a real issue. Ashe stopped in every village along his path up from the south, so wandering a bit only let him find even more people in need of help scattered about his route. Plus, most of the refugee settlements weren’t marked on any map in existence. Ashe mostly found those by word of mouth - and by aimless wandering, of course! It was nice to have a sense of direction, but on the road, he could take as long as he liked. He lived off the land now, stopping at inns when he could spare the coin or pelts to trade. Otherwise, he could hunt and forage anything he needed from the woods. Ashe tied Buttermilk’s lead loosely around the branches of a nearby tree, dismounting to check for animal tracks.

Still, it was a lonely adventure. Ashe met and helped dozens of people along the way - he even grew quite close to some of them! He’d visit after the war to make sure they were doing alright, and to recount the tales of his journeys. In the past, though, Ashe always had someone to stand beside. Someone constant. First, it was his younger siblings, then Christophe and Lonato, who he deeply cherished even now. Then his classmates, who always worked so seamlessly as a team under the Professor’s guidance. They all relied on each other too, almost like a family at times! And then Dedue, of course. Though he didn’t rely on Ashe, not really. He was different. Not a bad different, but, well… They took care of each other. They could lean on each other, unconditionally. Ashe never really had that before. He’d been a caretaker, and he’d certainly been taken care of, but with Dedue...

It’s alright now. Ashe tries not to think about it too much. He tries not to think about him; he tries not to think himself down into that deep, dark spiral of what-ifs because Dedue… He wouldn’t have wanted Ashe to hurt so much. But it did hurt! Not as bad as when the pain was fresh, but it still hurt. Every time his fingers fell upon that bronze pendant, each time he found a patch of wildflowers hidden in the tough northern grasses, their tender moments weighed so heavy in his heart. At times, he cursed those memories; for how dare they still feel so, so real? How could he Ashe remember so perfectly the way Dedue’s hand fit into his? How he smelled of cardamom and cinnamon and Ashe could feel his chest rise and fall under his hand, how he was always so remarkably gentle and Ashe’s heart stuttered when Dedue kissed his hand or combed through his hair…

Ashe remembered every perfect little detail, amplified through the fragments of his memories. Sometimes, it was just a feeling, a hand on his waist or the taste of his ginger tea, and he longed so badly for more. Just what had Ashe done to earn such divine punishment? That he should eternally pine for the touch of a dead man, that his heart should be caught in limbo, forever in love with a ghost? 

And yet, forgetting would be far, far more painful. So Ashe held onto the memories. He kept Dedue’s pendant close to his heart. It still hurt, but Ashe got back on his feet, eventually. He’d be proud, wouldn’t he?

Light steps to the east. A rustle in the bushes. Ah, the hunt. In the waking world, Ashe laid eyes on a stag, magnificent in his shining auburn coat and pointed crown. The quiet, the stealth, the intense focus on everything around - it all made sense to him in an innate sort of way. The hunt came so naturally to him, when he wasn’t lost in his memories, of course. Maybe it was from his years on the streets. His body remembered how to be still and silent, how to watch and listen and hone in on treasures and easy prey caught unawares. 

Quietly, now. Ashe approached.

* * *

Shortly after the battle of Garreg Mach, Ashe traveled back to Castle Gaspard and signed away everything Lonato might have left him before the nobles could raise disputes about his past. Ashe had no real right to the Gaspard lands, and he knew that, but still, he felt a new sort of heartbreak knowing that the last pieces of Lonato were to be given over to another house. Would the people be happy with Count Rowe as their ruler? He was no Lonato, but he showed Ashe and his siblings what little mercy he could, given the circumstances. Ashe took only a small armful and saddlebag’s worth of things from the castle - a few books on the wild (and Loog and the Maiden of Wind, so he would never forget what Lonato did for him), coin and clothes for his travel, and the twins. 

In another world, where Ashe was a trueborn heir or some important lordling with a crest, maybe they would be in danger, but most people probably wouldn’t recognize his face. Gaspard was only a minor region. Most commoners didn’t think twice about the local nobility, and most traditional nobles hardly considered him a noble at all. Still, he wore a hood. He took a different name. He tucked the twins away in a kind, unassuming church in a small farming village just outside of Charon territory. Ashe could have joined him then. Maybe he should have. They could be family, just like before. Just the three of them, this time...

It was tempting, but no. Commoner or not, Ashe still had a role to play in the years to come, he just didn’t know what it was quite yet. House Fraldarius and House Gautier still fought for the Kingdom with what troops they could muster, and Ashe supposed that was a noble enough cause. The Professor surely would have approved. And yet, it’s still just… fighting. Fighting is the only option, Ashe knows that, but even if they strike down every Imperial soldier, even if they drive Edelgard all the way back to Enbarr and wipe out all of her demonic beasts, what land would be left to rule? It’s burning, all of it, even in the Alliance. Even in the Empire. Edelgard would burn the whole world if it delivered her ideals, wouldn’t she?

Enough killing. Ashe sets off, traveling north, hoping to protect _something_. A lone knight, without a master. Maybe he doesn’t have the power to protect the whole Kingdom, but there are little things he can save, too. He could protect the small villages from being ravaged and looted by opportunistic bandits. Maybe he could preserve some of the tales of the old men and women of the plains, or he could use his herbalism to heal those left without healers in the wake of the war. He could hunt for those who were hungry and tell stories of knights to the children left orphans. Ashe would protect all of it. All that he could.

And so, Ashe travels north, putting out each fire he can, planting new trees and flowers in the ashes. For a while, he hoped he might find Dedue one day, out on the road just like him. Dedue would have been a better caretaker. Gods, he was noble enough. That was a foolish thought, though. He lives on the longest road, in search of something impossible.

Ashe prayed in the beginning. Each night, he spoke a prayer to the Goddess to plead for Dedue’s safety, and that one day he would return - but Dedue was a man of Duscur, so maybe she didn’t have that power. Ashe decided to pray to the Duscur gods as well, all the ones he could remember, and some he couldn’t, too. They had gods for all sorts of things, so if only a few heard him, if even one heard his plea, then surely they would help Dedue!

_To the god of stars, send my love a sign that leads him to me._  
_To the god of wind, let him move swiftly so that we meet soon._  
_To the god of nature, grow violets where he stands, so he knows I’m by his side._

_Gods, please, send him a sign so he knows where to find me, and so he knows I love him still._

Dedue was still alive then, or Ashe thought so. He hoped so. That was the important bit, really. He still had hope then. The battle, then Gaspard and Count Rowe, searching for a home - it was all too much, all too fast, and he hadn’t stopped to think about what would happen if Dedue didn’t live. He had to live! The only possible future Ashe saw was to hurry north and find Dedue along his path. No matter what happened next, they would face it together. He could wait and worry about their mortality then! Ashe wouldn’t accept anything less, he would keep looking and looking until they found each other, because they _would_ find each other.

And then they didn’t. Years passed, and they didn’t. First, it was the silence and the dark thoughts. Not a comfortable silence like they once had with each other, but one that weighed so heavy with uncertainty and ill omens. Ashe traveled north, then west to the capital but Dedue never found him. The city went to hell, the prince died, Rowe declared for the Empire… The Goddess wasn’t watching, not anymore. Maybe she hadn’t been, since the battle, or maybe since before then. Ever since Lonato rebelled, Ashe had his doubts, but, well, praying to nothingness shouldn’t do any harm.

Except it didn’t do any good, either. Silence from man, silence from the forest, and silence from the heavens, too. That silence always used to comfort him - the stillness of it all - how snowy grass soaked up the sound and blessed the woods as a quiet sanctum. In the spring, leaves rustled about and animals scurried and chirped from each branch, but that was a different sort of silence too. Those silences had never felt lonely to Ashe, but this one did.

It’s cold.

Not the frigid, snowy cold that comes with the winter moons; this kind lasts through the seasons. This cold is different, bitterer somehow. It’s the chill of hollow years gone by, passed in solitude. It’s the quiet of the woods, broken only by the rhythm of horse hooves and errant bird calls.

In the south, papery maples shed their skin and grow bark anew. Flowers sprout and push through the earth, bit by bit until they, too, wither and die, only to resprout again from deep roots. The sun dips lower and lower each night. The seasons change, and it begins its rise again. Life changes. It cycles. It lives, it dies, and nature is none the worse for it. Bears hibernate and birds fly south for the winter, but they always awaken. They always make their way back north to start the cycle anew.

But this cold never ceases. Ashe never returns to his nest. Unlike the bears and birds, he’s cut adrift, floating endlessly through this river of time. It’s flowery language, mere bards’ words to pretty up this sinking pit of nothingness that he carries in his chest, but Ashe doesn’t know another way to describe this… this curse of his. 

He finds joy in the little children playing knights and strife in the older folk who tend the farms and kitchens as their own children are called to war. Slowly, that sinking part of him tries to mend. The hollowness blooms with flowers and laughter, dense little corncakes packed with jam and nuts, and the names and faces of all those he’s helped along the way. Ashe’s journey is dotted with sunny towns and moments of beauty - wonder, triumph, cheer - all those things, but never love, not again.

* * *

Ashe crouched behind a mossy boulder, light steps masked by a carpet of wet autumn leaves. He steps slowly, carefully, vigilant for stray twigs that might snap and give him away. The stag paused by a thorny weed ten meters away, turned broadside as it nibbled at pale green leaves. Perfect. Ashe lined up his shot, right through the lungs. Quick, and with a strong pull; the deer wouldn’t suffer, not if Ashe could help it. He rarely missed his mark these days.

Ever focused, he drew back his bowstring. What was that? Sounds he can’t make out just yet. Hold. Listen. The stag spooks, cantering away as shouts echo from a distant clearing to the east. 

Three voices by Ashe’s count: a panicked man, a gruff woman, and a quieter sly voice. Metal clashes against wood, a horse startles with a shrill whinny. Someone cries out in fear - Ashe crept closer to the voices, bow and hand axe at the ready. Patience has saved him many times before. Watch, wait, move carefully. The Professor taught him to size up his enemy before each engagement. Know your strengths and weaknesses, and master them both. Wait for an opening. Slowly, he approached the clearing, scoping out the skirmish from afar before he made himself known.

An old cart had run off the worn dirt path, straight into a ditch. Two wheels facing the sky spun aimlessly upwards searching for the road while the other two wheels sunk into the mud, crushed under the weight of the carriage. Panicked horses kicked about, still harnessed into the tilted cart. By the road, two figures obscured in dyed black hoods bear down on an older man in a well-worn green cloak dotted with pockets of all shapes and sizes. A merchant, by the looks of it, maybe even a tinkerer. Roads aren’t safe these days; he never should have been traveling alone, but few merchants could afford the cost of protection.

Two thieves. One carries a bow, the other a shortsword. The sword-wielding thief leans in close, threatening the merchant with his blade. It’s a classic ambush. Ashe has seen it before. The old merchant probably stepped out to investigate a broken wheel when the thieves pounced. He’s an easy mark - most merchants are. They haven’t seen him yet. They won’t if he’s quick.

It’s an easy shot. It’s too easy, considering the gravity of it all. One shot straight through the heart, and that’s it. It’s too easy to take lives; it’s far too quick. The bowman first, so he can’t fire back, then the one with the sword. It’ll be over before they know it. Ashe hates this part - the killing. He’s done all he can to get away from the war, away from the fighting, but it’s _everywhere_. To protect, sometimes he has to kill. He knows that. Ashe knows that sometimes it’s unavoidable, but he hates it still. Even more, he hates that he’s become good at it.

He tries not to think about the part that comes next.

* * *

The sun dips low over a meadow of wildflowers, casting the land in lovely warm hues. All manner of bright flowers bloom vividly in patches speckled throughout the clearing. Somewhere in the distance, waves crash over a rocky shore, sending salty ocean breeze flying into the air. Dedue lie back in the field, carefully weaving lilies into a garland. Ashe perched by his side, propped up on his elbows. It’s nice here, if a little hazy.

White locks fanned out over the blue-green northern grasses. Late sunlight reflected in his eyes, spinning grass into gold. He’s beautiful like this, really, truly beautiful, like he always was. A masterwork chiseled in stone, but with all the warmth of a glowing hearth. What if Ashe was missing details? His eyes were always so honest, so sincere, but what if they weren’t quite the right shade of emerald? What if he’d forgotten?

“Even this far north, it is still warm.” Dedue mused. He focused on the garland, folding the stems into intricate patterns Ashe couldn’t quite make out through the haze.

“It’s warmer in Gaspard.” Ashe twisted a blade of grass between his fingers. “I’ll take you there one day after the fighting’s over.” Oh, how he longed to trace the lines beneath Dedue’s tunic - or to dispense with the cotton entirely and map each and every inch of his skin, and test the depth of this sweet, sweet memory of him! Though he rarely saw Dedue bare, he swore to remember each little mark and scar from their missions as students. Ashe had a few of his own now too, though surely he didn’t wear them as well as Dedue did.

“One day.” Dedue agreed. Gentle, broad arms pulled him closer as their lips met in a tender kiss. Only a ghost of their previous affections, Ashe knew, but it was a small gift. Even with misted senses, he still felt so close, so real. Perfect, if distant. Even in his dreams, Ashe couldn’t help but remember that Dedue was gone and that this was only an illusion, if a comforting one. The illusion - this mirage - it should be enough. He should be satisfied with this, but… Gods and Goddess, he couldn’t help but wish for more.

“I miss you…” Ashe pulled away, trembling, “I miss you so, so much, Dedue.” They should have had more time. Why couldn’t they have had more time?

“I am here.” Dedue laid a hand over his chest, just above his heart, “I am with you.”

“I-I know…” And it should be enough - it had to be. He shouldn’t get greedy. Ashe clutched his pendant, digging deep for the gratitude buried under mountains of grief. “I know. I’m sorry, I just… I can’t seem to let go of you.”

“You are like the flowers,” Dedue whispered. He reached up to tuck stray silver locks behind Ashe’s ear and wick away budding tears. 

“Beautiful?” He smiled, but it was a fragile thing. Easily cracked.

“Of course.” He chuckled, “But you are also resilient, like the flowers of Duscur. After the winter, you bloom again.” Ashe relaxed into his touch, willing his hand to stay. Warm, but muted, not fully him. “I wished to show them to you, one day.”

“I would love to see them.” Ashe turned to kiss his wrist, lips lingering on his skin.

“The land is burnt and barren now.”

“But they’re resilient, right?” Ashe perked up, smiling in earnest now, “Maybe they’ve grown back.”

“I suppose it is possible... Though unlikely.”

“I’ll visit, then.” Calloused, pale fingers curled around Dedue’s hand, slipping into the spaces between his fingers. “With you.” Ashe snuggled close, basking in the soft linens of his tunic. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t see, but Ashe heard the small smile in his voice. A sweet little thing, always for him. Only for him. “I-”

* * *

A jolt from the wheels shook Ashe awake - a fallen branch or some such. Ah well, it’s probably time to rise anyway. Distant lanterns flickered in the early morning light, a sign of the next town on his journey north. He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The merchant was a good man, though a bit jumpy. Understandably so, of course. After the ambush, Ashe helped to right the cart and fix the smashed wheels. It wasn’t the finest work, but apparently his temporary patch of ropes and sticks had lasted until the next town. 

At some point during his encounter with the thieves, the merchant had fainted. It was probably the blood. Ashe had gotten used to it, though the sight still made his skin crawl from time to time. When the merchant awoke, he nearly knocked Ashe over the head with a heavy branch mistaking him for another bandit. Ashe didn’t blame him, he wore a hooded cloak too these days - better to evade the Empire. Luckily, Ashe was quick enough to dodge away and explain the situation, though it took a little convincing. Still, why would a bandit stick around to fix his wheel and leave him alive? Once he broke through, the merchant apologized profusely and insisted on some sort of payment for Ashe’s kindness, doubly so for almost attacking him after the fact.

Gold, rations, textiles - he offered anything in the cart, even the horses! Ashe didn’t need anything, really. He bartered with goods more often than gold, hunted for his own food and leather, and Buttermilk was a good steed, though she was an older girl. Still, the merchant wouldn’t hear of his refusal! If nothing material would satisfy him, he offered to let Ashe hitch a ride north to the next town on his trading route.

Well, he could use some rest, and Buttermilk seemed to like the merchants’ horses enough. She was an excellent judge of character, so Ashe reluctantly accepted. Dozing off in the back of the cart surely helped, though his back ached from the bumps of the road. Sooner or later, he’d have to treat himself to an inn and a hot bath. Sooner, preferably! A nice bed, maybe… Maybe he could continue that dream from before, or try, at least. Ashe twisted the leather cord between his fingers, pendant heavy on the line. It was just a dream, and a silly one at that, and yet...

“Ah, you’re awake. Good.” The merchant called from his seat at the front of the carriage. “We’re heading into Aberwen, last town on my route north. I’ll be stayin’ in town a few days, but you’re welcome to hitch a ride with me south after then. Least I can do. I’ll be travelin’ off the roads this time.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Ashe beamed. If not the whole country, his presence had meant something to this merchant. “I’ll see what I can do for the people of Aberwen, hopefully, they don’t need my help at all!” Ashe laughed, “But I think I’ll head west after this.”

“West?” The merchant clucked his tongue, “Nothing but war in those parts, boy. You got a death wish?”

“No… Well, maybe a little.” Ashe climbed into the front seat of the cart, “There’s a place my friend used to tell me about in the west. I think I’d like to see it one day before I die.”

The merchant shook his head. “Bad omens that way, but there are still some towns resisting the Dukedom. Can’t get any goods in there, though. Border’s too volatile to be drivin’ a whole caravan through.”

“Really? I didn’t realize there was a resistance in the Dukedom. I thought Cornelia had a pretty tight hold on everything.”

“Well, some folk never take well to a new ruler, Cornelia’s no exception. There’s some of the southern villages, down by Rowe, and a few scattered in the plains up north - not like they could win a battle against the Dukedom though. Mostly just the little things, like scouting reports for the resistance here in the east. And say what you will about ‘em, those Duscurs aren’t the type to lay down and die.”

“Duscurs?” It was all barren, he’d said. Of course, that wasn’t just the dream talking. Dedue insisted that the land was little more than ashes many times before, back when… Back then. “I thought the islands were still in ruins?”

“Think so, least as far as I know, but they say there’s a settlement north of old Fhirdiad, near the shore. Just Duscur folk there. Couple of merchant folk braver than I traded with ‘em for reports on the Dukedom’s forces. Don’t know if it’s useful, but it sure sells for a pretty penny up in Gautier.”

“Well, if they’re resisting, then we’ve got to help as much as we can!” Fighting from the inside… It must be scary, but those brave people were probably helping more than they knew. “Do you think you could draw me a map? Just the bare bones, so I know which towns to help.”

“You really are somethin’.” He shook his head but rifled around in his pack for a few pieces of parchment.

“So I’m told.” Ashe grinned.

“At least let me buy you a room at the inn before you go killin’ yourself.”

“Deal!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic wounds start near the end of this chapter. If you know my writing style and have read the tags, nothing should surprise you. Skip to the end notes for more specific warnings if you're unsure.

The inn was nice. The Fairlily Tavern and Inn had a warm hearth and well-kept rooms rented by a sweet old couple from a town east of Fhirdiad, long before the war. Firewood is scarce without sturdy hands to chop it, but Ashe could help with that. His supply should last them a good few moons, maybe well into the winter if they stockpile a bit more while it’s still warm and dry. They had good ale, and the tankards get filled to the brim when split between so few mouths. The northern brews are much stronger than he’s used to, but he never drank much for pleasure in the south anyway. Still, it was a nice treat, and they kept insisting that his drinks would always be on the house, as long as he had stories of his journeys to share! Some fire runes were a bit faulty, but the taps in the bathhouse would eventually spit out hot water if you’re persistent enough. Ashe couldn’t help with that very much; spells and runestones always made his head hurt.

It was really nice, actually - the domestic life. He and the old innkeeper shared a love of cooking. After he stayed a few nights in the town, she even let Ashe help prepare some venison stew - Ashe’s treat, from his hunt that day. In a cozy sort of way, it reminded him of cooking with family. Ashe left her with a few spices he picked up along his journey: thyme and rosemary, hardy herbs which better suit her slow-cooked dishes than his hurried bites on the road. Ashe never gets enough time to develop the flavors, but he’s at least learned a thing or two about open-flame cooking over the years.

Like most towns, Aberwen struggles, but they’ve made it this far through pure grit and determination. Farms fell into a state of neglect when the strong youth left to march south in droves, and houses stood empty, wondering if they’ll ever be so full of life again. In each vacant lot, Ashe noticed things. Memories, maybe. Charms, tokens of affection, and simple drawn portraits - not as good as Ignatz could draw in their academy days, but it’s something personal still. Something that lasts. Well-worn wooden toys, clearly crafted with care, now lie scattered about the empty rooms.

Together, they cleared out some of the vacant houses and filled them with worn books, toys, and spare blankets, converting them to small community centers and shared homes. One of the older women used to be a merchant in her youth; now, with all the new space, she dedicates her time to teaching the children to count and read simple words. There are still squabbles over sharing their meager grain and eggs, but they always settle in time. Old grudges mend through charity and understanding. They share space and love, and they learn to care for one another as a new family - a big one, with plenty of room for more. Conflict, Ashe has learned, has a funny way of bringing people together. He wishes there was a better way. They don’t have much here, but it’s enough for this winter.

All is well, or as well as it can be in wartime. Ashe felt rested, more than he had in weeks. Dedue didn’t visit his dreams again, but for the first time in a while, Ashe can feel him close, right near his heart. For a little while, he brightens up that cold sinking place. Ashe won’t find him to the west, he knows that, but maybe he’ll find some flowers. He’ll find the bright ones that Dedue took such pride in at the monastery. The prettiest ones, he’ll cut and press into pages of parchment next to Lonato’s herbs. 

It’s time to go. Buttermilk nibbled a few lumps of beet sugar and carrot rounds from the children’s hands. She even let a few of the kids ride on her back as they walked through the markets. She’s great with kids - incredibly gentle, _incredibly_ patient. 

“Still sure about this?” The old merchant from yesterday approached as Ashe started to check his saddlebags one last time. “I’ve seen what you’ve done for these folk, you’d be welcome in any village south o’ here, too. Offer’s still open if you’re havin’ any last doubts. Sure there’s a lot of towns that could still use your help.”

“I’m sure, really!” Ashe smiled. In truth, he was a little nervous about crossing into Empire territory, but it would be worth it if he could get even a glimpse of the Duscur that Dedue would have known. “Besides, I plan to return safe and sound. Maybe I’ll take you up then.”

“Why now? Why not wait ‘till the fighting’s done?”

“I’m sure this sounds ridiculous,” He laughed, “But I suppose I just feel like this is what the world is telling me to do now. Call it fate.”

“Hmph. It does sound ridiculous.” He shook his head, “Right, then. Don’t go throwin’ your life away over nothin’. Hope to see you back on the routes some day, Sir Duran.”

“Ah,” Ashe blushed, “I’m not a knight.”

“You are to them.” He coughs, jabbing an elbow towards three little rascals hopefully peering out from behind a haystack. “To us.”

* * *

Ashe traveled on his own paths, ones that hadn’t been worn in yet. He avoided the roads, and for once, he didn’t go looking for stray towns. He’s on a mission now. It’s not clear when he crosses into Empire territory, but soon enough, the Dukedom’s banners are scattered along roads and farms. Several days pass. It’s warm, but birds are already beginning to fly south for the winter. The woods seemed quieter, though not in a calming way. When he’s sure he’s alone, Ashe pulls out his pan flute and tries to mimic the bird songs. He’s no Annie, the notes are a little off, but the cheer is there! It puts him at ease, just a little bit.

Another few days pass. His rations grew scarce, but the woods offer plenty in return. After a quick bit of foraging, Ashe stocked handfuls of wild berries and soothing herbs into a satchel he keeps tucked into his saddlebags. If he’s quick, they’ll make for a good trade in the next town. The herbs will still be useful once they dry out, but fresh is always better. A few rabbits wander into his hidden snares - that should be enough for the night. Rabbit pelts never sold particularly well, but if he’s lucky, a wisewoman or two might be interested in a rabbit’s foot.

The merchant marked some villages to the south, but the northern villages - the Duscur settlement… His map was pretty vague on those locations, actually. He noted a few rivers, and those would be good enough landmarks, but he only drew a broad circle where the settlement should have been. Well, it’s probably the best he can do, given it’s only second-hand knowledge. Ashe would have to do a bit of wandering, then.

A pillar of smoke rose in the distance - a small one, probably just a campfire. Ashe closed in on the clearing, wondering who in the world would be reckless enough to set a fire in broad daylight. A civilian? It’s pretty far from the nearest town based on Ashe’s old Kingdom maps, though, so probably Empire troops. They have little to fear, given Cornelia’s control, though if the rumors are true, and civilians really aren’t content with her regime, soldiers with gold and rations make a prime target. Guards carried enough gold to settle disputes, and soldiers carried enough for emergency boarding, usually more for their own use. Most soldiers drank plenty, too - they were easy to distract, but Ashe never chanced stealing from them back then. The risk was still too great.

A warrior - just one, sitting on a thick fallen log by a tiny campfire. Normally scouts travel in pairs or small groups, but normally scouts aren’t warriors, either. His thin, ill-patched grey cloak clearly wasn’t built for the cold, but it wasn’t too cold yet, so he’s managing. Still, he’s probably from the Empire to be dressed so recklessly, though Ashe didn’t spot any red on his uniform. If he is a scout, Ashe supposed he wouldn’t blow his cover so recklessly. The warrior plows away at a tin of salted jerky, oblivious as Ashe circled around, quietly observing the camp. An axe lies on the ground off to the left, and a silver shield lies to his right, just out of reach if Ashe were to take him by surprise. The camp is a mess, even if he’s a new scout, and is that - the scout - his hair is blue, isn’t it? Wait…

“Caspar?” Ashe took aim, just in case he was wrong. The figure startled, nearly dropping the tin. He whipped around, looking for Ashe’s voice among the trees.

"Who goes there?!" He shouted in the deepest booming voice he could manage through a mouthful of jerky. Definitely Caspar. Ashe knew he was faking it. He stepped out from the trees, drawing back his hood. Ashe kept his bow at the ready, but…

"It's me, Ashe…" He's with the Empire now. "Um, we shouldn’t fight..."

"Ashe! Hey!" Caspar perked up, beaming broadly until the words sunk in. His grin twisted, confused. "Fight?"

"You're with House Bergliez… And they’re backing the Empire against the Kingdom, so…” Ashe frowned. He shouldn’t have to spell it out, but he should also be glad that Caspar didn’t charge him headfirst when he stepped out of the treeline.

“Nah,” Caspar shook his head, “I left Bergliez when the war started.”

“What?” Well, if he’s not with the Empire, then they truly don’t have to fight one another. Caspar has always been a bad liar, so Ashe decided to take him at his word. Still, he checked for the dagger sheathed at his hip. Good. He slung his bow back over his shoulder, taking a seat next to Caspar on his log. “Why did you leave? That’s your home, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…” Caspar swallowed his bite of jerky, “I wasn’t really sure what to do. Edelgard declared war, and it just seemed really extreme, y’know? So when our Professor fought against her, I thought maybe they were right… Maybe I shouldn’t side with the Empire. They always seemed to know what to do, so… I left.” Caspar grimaced. No doubt Ashe had dredged up some painful memories.

“It’s good to see you, Caspar.” Ashe offered him a few foraged blackberries.

“Yeah, you too Ashe.”

“Although... That doesn’t explain why you’re so far north.” He gestured to the torn gray cloak, “Did you bring anything warmer? It’s going to get pretty cold up here!”

“I’m gonna fight for the Kingdom!” Caspar grinned, “It’ll be just like old times, you and me, and all the other Blue Lions. I’ll be your secret weapon!” He clapped Ashe on the back, and for a moment, Ashe was back in the monastery dining hall, feasting with their house after a long mission. 

“The Kingdom could use your strength!” Ashe laughed, “But I’m not fighting for the Kingdom, not exactly.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I think maybe there are other ways to help people in wartime, so I want to do that instead of just fighting.” Caspar probably wouldn’t understand, not really. He was a good guy, but he always thought with his fists first, his heart second, and then maybe his brain third. Raw passion drove him forward, usually only tempered by the Professor’s guidance or a sleepy crest scholar at his side. Speaking of…

“Where’s Linhardt?” Caspar stiffened. The words flew out of his mouth before Ashe could really pause and think. All that talk of Caspar being reckless and thinking with his fists, and Ashe had just blurted out possibly the most insensitive thing imaginable.

“He’s still with House Hevring.” ...Which meant that they were on opposite sides of the war, and if Caspar really planned on fighting...

“It’s hard to give up your home.” Ashe couldn’t imagine how Caspar must feel about it. If he was right about the nature of their relationship, it was no small thing that Caspar decided to fight for the Kingdom instead of the Empire. But Linhardt had joined their house, and it was no secret how much he had looked up to Professor Byleth… Maybe the Professor could have changed his mind - maybe it could still be changed, even if they weren’t here anymore.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t really care that much about his house. He said it’d be easier just to stay in the Empire and wait until the whole thing’s over…” He shook his head, “I write him letters sometimes, but he hasn’t written me back in a while.”

“Did you give him a return address?”

“Huh?” Caspar stared at him blankly.

“Did you tell him where to send the letters? You’re traveling, so he wouldn’t be able to send any back to you if you don’t tell him where to send it.” Caspar blinked. “Oh, Caspar…”

* * *

Ashe and Caspar split ways the next day - Ashe headed west, and Caspar east. They’ll meet again. Ashe promised he’d be back in the Kingdom soon enough, didn’t he? But this is important. Ashe supposed it was a bit selfish. After all, the merchant was right - plenty of towns still needed help in the south, but… It’s easy to get caught up in helping others. And that’s not bad, not really, not until you start hurting yourself. Over the years, he’s gotten better about that. Ashe treats himself to the inns, and sometimes he buys nice spices that he probably doesn’t _really_ need. Sometimes, he can do things for himself, too.

Caspar ventured off Gautier territory, looking to join the resistance. Ashe did his best to draw him a map of the towns he visited and the safest path there, but knowing Caspar, he’ll probably get lost anyway. Hopefully, he won’t start too many fights. Surely, he’ll hear plenty of stories once he gets back. Alone again, Ashe quickly found one of the first rivers on the map - he should be close now! 

Ashe could afford to take a bit of a detour. Buttermilk settled easily once unsaddled, always happy to take a rest from their travels. She leisurely chewed at a patch of wildflowers. Ashe rummaged through his saddlebags - gah, where is it? Ashe remembered packing them… Ah! He found his hooks and fishing line nestled between his bedroll and a length of hempen rope. Perfect! These days, he usually only had time to attempt a bit of spearfishing with his lance here and there, but he always preferred the ritual of fishing with a rod. It takes time and lots of patience. Ashe tied the hook to a length of line, plenty to cast far across the water if he liked. Any spot will do, really. The tiny hook fell into the water with an equally tiny splash, disturbing the glassy surface. Tiny ripples bounced around the rocky river shores. Calm water rumpled up, pushing floating pine needles further out to sea. The quiet broke, just for a moment. It’s a sacrifice fishermen must make, but Ashe finds it peaceful in its own way.

It wasn’t always so peaceful - the water, that is. 

Before, when… There were times that the sinking pit won over, and the void there… The hollowness - the damned hollowness - it hurt so bad, Ashe just wanted it to stop. The water called to him then, deeper than the pit and twice as cold, with a dead man reflecting back in its waves. He just wanted it to stop… 

Icy waves lapped at his ankles, luring him closer, deeper. He sunk past his knees, past his waist and further, further still until the smooth river stones fell away into sand, silt, and jagged rocks plunging up from the riverbed. He would have done anything to make it stop, even when the air tore out of his lungs and the ice pierced through his skull - anything...

_You have me, always._

No… That nagging voice… He begged it to stop. To stop _lying_ , because it wasn’t true. Dedue was _gone_. 

_Even if I should fall, I am with you._

Ashe trembled in the riverbed, light as a shaking leaf drawn along by the currents, but that voice wouldn’t stop, the pit didn’t stop, the cold didn’t stop. Dedue would be so disappointed.

_You have grown very strong._

But Ashe was weak. He was so, so weak. He crumpled and clawed at his throat and that damned amulet, the blessed, cursed, imperfect memory of Dedue...

He can’t… Ashe didn’t want to disappoint him. He flopped onto the shore, choking up murky water for what felt like hours. His eyes burned. His lungs burned. His whole damned body burned.

That was years ago. Less than that, actually. A year and change, maybe, before Ashe found enough smiling faces on the road to keep him moving forward. These days, the townspeople are enough. The wisewoman and little children are enough, as are the spices and trinkets he picks up along the way. Seeds he can plant in a barren garden, literally and otherwise.

He’s stronger now, for Dedue. The dark water doesn’t call to him as often, but the rivers always remind him how easily he might’ve been taken away by the tide. There’s a strange sort of dichotomy to it. The rivers give him fish, they wash him clean, and yet they could snuff out that bright little part of him in an instant. It gives and it takes. Ashe is just waxing poetic now, really. He’s been on the road for too long. Still, he caught a few fish while lost in thought, so it wasn’t for nothing.

Buttermilk patiently watched while he made camp. It’s just him these days, and with his practice, it doesn’t take long before Ashe is sitting in front of a tiny fire, snug under his cloak. He turned the fish over on their little skewers, roasting them as evenly as he can. Dedue would have preferred an oven to finish them off, but there’s something nice about the simplicity of cooking on an open flame. And, well, Ashe can’t very well carry around a brick oven. Empty tins clinked around in his saddlebags. His tiny stock of spices has started to run short, but he wouldn’t need much this time of year. A little salt, a few tiny sprigs of tarragon tucked inside - it’ll taste just right. 

Dedue used to say-

Rough leather clamped over Ashe’s mouth, muffling a startled yelp. Cold, sharp steel pressed up against his neck, daring him to move an inch. Breathe. Panic shot through his body in freezing bolts. His throat seized, he couldn’t breathe... Harsh hands yanked his arms behind his back - if he could have done something before, now he was even more helpless! Ashe trembled and shrunk away, deep into his cloak. Breathe, Ashe. This couldn’t be happening, it’s not supposed to-

“You’ll stay quiet.” A gruff voice rasped into his ear, too close. Be brave, be strong now… It can’t end here. Ashe gave a small, shaking nod, careful not to brush up against the dagger threatening his life. He willed himself to stay still, but the shivers never stopped - if anything, they got worse. A few shadowy figures stepped out from behind the nearby trees and bushes. Two axe-wielders and a brawler, all quite muscular. 

How had he not noticed? Ashe had been distracted, sure, but for these men to sneak up on him - they had to be more than just bandits! Empire troops? One bulky man rummaged through his saddlebags, another rifled through his small pack. One disappeared behind him. Ashe didn’t carry much worth stealing, but he’d have a hard time without his hunting supplies. Maybe he could trade something, maybe they just wanted gold?

“How far north have the Empire’s troops marched?” The gloved hand dropped to allow Ashe to answer.  
The grappler turned to him, tossing his pack to the ground. In the firelight, Ashe could make out a studded belt under his heavy breastplate, leather scales guarding his knees - a war master’s armor? Strange symbols were engraved into his plate, magical runes maybe. Ashe didn’t recognize them. He wasn’t wearing Empire colors, though. Four total - and they all look _strong_ … Ashe couldn’t fight his way out of this one.

“Speak.” The voice in his ear grumbled, jabbing his side.

“U-um, I’m not sure?”Ashe winced. Breathe in, breathe out. His pulse raced and stuttered. He focused on the faint scent of tarragon drifting up from the fireplace. Something, anything - Ashe needed an anchor.

“Might wanna think a little harder.” The knife cut into his skin, shallow, just enough to draw blood, enough to hinder his breathing.

“I’m n-not with the Empire?” His voice shook, but he tried to be brave. He couldn’t die here. It’s not supposed to end here...

“Of course you’re not.” The war master scoffed, “This map of resisting villages - let me guess, you’re here to _helpfully_ report on their numbers? Is that it?”

“I g-give you my word,” Ashe shut his eyes, hoping to steady his voice, as though it would prove his innocence. “I’m from the Kingdom.” One of the men declared his saddlebags worthless. Metal beads clinked about, rustling against leather and pelts as the war master moved closer. Topaz eyes burned through his own, peering through the gaps of a horned helmet. Shadows masked most of his features, but that sigil… He recognized it from one of Dedue’s notebooks, from one of the stories he told long, long ago. 

“You… You’re D-Duscur?” Ashe squeaked out.

“Frightened, little one?” He snorted, “Afraid we’ll eat you up?”

“N-no, I… I...” Ashe stuttered. They were so close, too close! His words - all his words about Dedue caught in his throat. What was he supposed to say?

“You what? Spit it out, Empire scum!” Maybe they… If they knew, if they saw, then...

“M-my...” Ashe flinched, “My necklace… Please…”

“Jewelry?” Another warrior scoffed, “Please, we’re not here for gold. Tell us what you know about the Empire’s troops, and maybe we’ll kill you quickly.”

“No, um,” Tears slipped down his cheeks, staining the front of his tunic. Breathe. Be strong. “I-I’m a friend...” A warrior grabbed at his neckline, fishing out the leather cord.

“Hmph.” The war master sucked in a breath. “Where’d you get this?” The knife inched away from his throat.

“I had a friend from Duscur,” Ashe choked out, “W-we were really close… He gave me this before the war started. B-but… he’s gone now.” The fish started to burn; Ashe should have turned them over by now.

“If you are from the Kingdom as you say, why are you in Imperial territory?” The man’s voice calmed, softer now.

“I… I wanted to visit,” A wave of new, hot tears sprung from his eyes. “We promised to visit together one day, but it’s just me now. I know there’s not much there anymore, but I heard there was a settlement? But, um, I don’t mean to intrude, I just really miss him and...” Ashe had been so selfish! In his silly quest, he’d forgotten all about the people of Duscur - what if they didn’t _want_ him there? Of course, they might not want an outsider poking around on their land! Ashe rambled on, “I don’t want to forget him, or what he did for me, so I thought if I could see, maybe I-”

“Enough.” The war master gave a signal to his men. The blade fell away from his skin, and the man released his grip, pushing him forward. Ashe wobbled but caught himself on his knees. “It is dangerous to travel these woods alone.”

* * *

After the tragedy, most Duscur survivors eventually gathered at the coast over time. It made a lot of sense - the islands were still in ruins, but the coast was closer to their homeland than anywhere else. If you squinted, you could just make out the ridge of the nearest island in the distance on a clear day. Duscur folk weren’t welcome in most Faerghan cities; they knew that all too well, so most of them forged their own path and grouped up in small settlements, even back before the war.

Years ago, back at the monastery, the Blue Lions class encountered one of those settlements on a mission to quell a small Duscur rebellion. He wondered if any of the scouts had been part of that battle. It tore at Dedue to strike down his countrymen, but they were careful. Dedue hit with the blunt end of his axe, and Ashe aimed for their shoulders and legs, nothing that would kill. The Kingdom army had other ideas, though. They weren’t able to save all of the Duscurs from needless brutality, but every life they saved - it counted for something. Ashe knew it then, but he really saw it now.

After the rebellion, the settlement uprooted and moved to another spot on the coast, and when the Empire found their new settlement, they moved yet again. Nowadays, they were more careful. Outsiders weren’t allowed to enter the settlement, and they _certainly_ weren’t allowed to know its location. 

Luckily, they made an exception for Ashe, sort of. One stray move, any suspicious ‘scouting’, and the war master promised to strike him down personally. Ashe rode next to him, blindfolded while the Duscur man led Buttermilk along over a day and a half of travel.

It was unsettling at first. These men weren’t anything like Dedue. They were loud and quick, and not at all gentle… But, well… They were fun! They told terrible jokes and constantly teased each other in the common tongue, accented with what Ashe could only assume were Duscur profanities. They told raunchy tales around the fire and constantly boasted about their hunts. One claimed he’d taken down a rabbit thirty meters out with a javelin. A _javelin_! Rightfully, the three others wouldn’t let him live _that_ claim down. For the next several hours, whenever they spotted small game, they’d pester him to draw his javelin and take the shot! Ashe joined in too, although when he claimed he could make a shot, he fully intended to make good on his boasting. When they teased him for his scrawny stature, Ashe simply reminded them that they were much, much easier to hit. 

And so, they traveled. And it was nice, and it felt kind of like... home. Maybe not Lonato’s home, but his other homes, where he sat with Caspar and Raphael in the dining hall, or his siblings and other urchins in an alleyway and they all tried to bullshit each other for a few hours. No, they weren’t anything like Dedue, but they were kind.

Later that afternoon, they trotted into the settlement. Ashe knew they were getting close when he heard the telltale sounds of a smith hammering away at some metal creation, though he was still a bit startled when the scouts finally pulled off his blindfold. At a glance, the settlement looked much like any other - most of the land was dotted with large tents and wooden lean-tos. Only a few buildings had a solid stone foundation and proper lumber, and most of those were still unfinished. On Ashe’s travels, he usually stopped at towns with decaying, abandoned buildings and vast spaces left in ruins. But this - they weren’t salvaging and recovering, but instead building anew! 

Maybe things could never be just the same for Duscur, but if they could make something new, just a little piece of what it used to be, then that wasn’t so bad. All sorts of new and exciting things popped out to Ashe - women by the river washed colorful silks in woven reed baskets, and older folks shaped clay on spinning pottery wheels at a building next to the forge. Further out, on the outskirts, Ashe spotted some small farms and gardens too! As soon as he dismounted, though, his jellied legs firmly reminded him that he would _not_ be walking all through the town today.

Still, it was all so exciting! It wasn’t exactly like Dedue, no, nothing could be so perfect, but in all the moons Ashe passed alone, he had never felt so close to him. Dedue was in the air here, warm and thick enough that it wrapped around him like a blanket. He was in the twists of spiced smoke rising from tents down the hill, and in the delicate floral patterns carved into their pottery and sewn into canvas. If it’s just this - just this moment - then maybe it’s still enough for Ashe. It’s worth the trip.

Ashe hobbled over to a small apothecary, a subtle wooden building with a simple drawing of some plants and a vial over the door. Usually, he could trade his herbs for a bit of coin or spices. And, well, he had something else in mind too! A tiny bell chimed above the door, announcing his arrival as he limped in, satchel in hand. A short, silver-haired woman eyed him from across the counter. Soft lines carved into her almond skin, deepest where she smiled. Bronze flowers nestled into her thick, intricate braids shone in the late sunlight. Her brow furrowed as she focused on a scroll at her counter, mixing some sort of concoction in a small pot.

All manner of dried herbs hung from wooden ceiling beams. On the walls, some shelves sat stacked with more common herbs - dried leaves, mostly for cooking, by the looks of it. Other shelves held tiny bottles with all sorts of colored liquids and creams. Small barrels stained with red powder sat in one corner, labeled only with a Duscur word. A small archway lead into another room - Ashe spotted a few blankets folded up inside. In the back, he noticed a few potted plants under a hole in the roof - maybe they really liked the sun? The hole seemed intentional, but Ashe idly wondered what the wisewoman did when it rained.

“Hello!” Ashe beamed. The wisewoman gave him an odd look. Of course, most Duscurs gave him an odd look. Not a mean one, not really - they were probably just curious. And Ashe… Well, Ashe didn’t really know how to begin to explain exactly why he was here.

“Um, I don’t have much, but if it’s not too much trouble, I was hoping to trade something for recipes for Duscur food?” Ashe bit his lip, “I have some herbs from the south and a bit of gold.”

“Duscurian recipes?” She chuckled, voice gravelly, “It is quite rare for Faerghans to be curious of our ways.”

“I suppose it’s a bit strange, but I’d love to know more about Duscur, and the food is so delicious!” Dedue’s food was delicious, even when he cooked the simplest things, like plain old bread. Ashe always savoured it more, knowing that he cooked with love. Truthfully, even if he could perfectly replicate his recipes, it wouldn’t quite be the same. But it would be enough; Ashe couldn’t ask for more. “I knew a man from Duscur once, and he was a really great cook! I’ve tried to make his food, but I can never quite get the spices right.”

“Many of our recipes are passed down from kitchen to kitchen through the mouth. They are not often written, but I may have some mixed spices on hand. Each recipe may need more or less of the spices, but this you must learn with time.”

“Oh, of course!” Ashe set his satchel on the counter, fishing out bundles of herbs. “That would be wonderful, thank you-”

A glass vial clattered to the ground, cutting him off. Ashe whirled around to face the sound - a shelf by the archway but, oh...

A haggard, wounded figure leaned against the archway. A Duscur man - a soldier? Amber skin faded to a sallow, sickly yellow. Coarse, white hair fell in long, matted tangles well past his shoulders. He wore no tunic, but nearly his whole chest was covered cloth strips soaked with blood, torn away by his struggling movements. Jagged slashes and deep, piercing wounds littered his chest. Patches of skin on his sides seethed with burns from fire and acid alike - black magic wounds - Ashe had seen them many times before at the monastery. He sank to his hands and knees, clutching his side tight. Iron and bile filled the air, nauseatingly potent against the astringent herbs. Ashe ran to his side, because…

“Dedue?” It couldn’t be, but… Ashe steadied him by the shoulders, brushing away locks coated in crusting blood. It’s not, it can’t be, but… The man glanced upwards with hazy, river-stone eyes and that small, broken smile. “It… It’s you…”

“Ashe…” He murmured, sinking into the hollow of Ashe’s hip.

“Gods, what happened?” Ashe knelt in front of him, cradling Dedue’s head on his shoulder. A shaky hand combed through his hair. His hand was too warm, too wet. Blood soaked through the cloth strips at his side. Ashe clumsily tore a piece from his own cloak, pressing it to the wound. It’s bleeding too fast. The herbs - the herbs! Nothing here will work fast enough, herbalism takes time, and - “P-please,” Ashe stuttered to the wisewoman, “I have a vulnerary in my satchel!”

"Stay with me, _my heart_." He just had to hold out until Ashe could get the vulnerary, that's all! He just had to stay, to hold on for Ashe! Fresh blood spilled through his gloves. "I'm sorry, I'm here now, I'm not going anywhere, I-I promise..."

" _My heart_..." Dedue laced his fingers with Ashe's own, whispering weak words into his neck.

"Gods... Please d-don't die, Dedue, I c-can't..."

_I can't grieve you again._

Brilliant multicolored sparks leapt from his fingertips, rippling through the ruined skin on his abdomen. Dedue sighed, content as power pulsed into his skin, messily forcing the edges of his wound together to stem the bleeding. 

“I’m here, Dedue.” Ashe sobbed. “Always…”

* * *

Shaking fingers slipped from the archway, his legs screamed out for mercy. Dedue collapsed in a sore, shambling mound under the archway. Skin on his knees burnt against the woven grass rushes on the floor. A ceaseless, pounding pain in his head drowned out all sound, only worsened by the searing sunlight, far too bright for his eyes. Cool hands steadied him, helping him to kneel upright. Dedue braced himself against the wooden arch, pooling all his power to tilt his head back and gaze upward, into the light.

Spots and colors swam before his eyes, but he was there - _Ashe_ was there. Golden rays haloed those hazy, pale features and silvery hair glowing rose in the late afternoon light. A dream. He let his lungs burn and blood gush through the hand clamped at his side. Dedue leaned into a rough blue cloak, deaf as gentle hands brushed away blood-caked tangles of hair. He let himself fade, let himself be taken as darkness clouded the edges of his vision.

The angel knelt before him, pressing a cloth bandage to his wound. Dedue rested in the curve of his neck, threading his fingers through that silver hair, soft as he'd always dreamed. He found no lavender, no sweet clover honey light on his skin, but leather, iron, and pine needles crushed underfoot. Was his hair longer? It didn't fall so haphazardly as before, and yet, it still fell like fine silk between his fingers. An imperfect illusion, but Dedue's memories were not so reliable these days. The dream spoke to him, but Ashe's words folded and clumped in his ears. Dedue tried for a small smile, Ashe's smile. A sunny feeling spread through his skin, emanating from the wound at his side.

It's warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific Warnings:  
> Non-explicit attempted suicide  
> Ashe gets mugged  
> Graphic wound descriptions


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to get graphic. Read the tags, read the warnings. If you're sensitive to graphic violence and injuries, skip this chapter. I encourage you to give it a try, though.

**Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180**

Ashe,

There is much that I wish to say to you. Imperial spies have infiltrated Fhirdiad. I will be unable to leave the city until the chaos settles, but know that I have not forgotten the details of our last conversation.

Take caution,  
Dedue

* * *

**???, Imperial Year 1183?**

Memories came in flashes, if they came at all. 

Cold dew dripped down from the drab stone walls of Dedue’s cell. Snowmelt trickled in through the grates of the streets above, puddling over cracked and uneven tiles. The sharp scent of blood and acrid bile embittered the air. Pointed pebbles scattered about the mossy stones ground into Dedue’s knees as he knelt, slumping against the wall. He curled in close, as much as the thick, iron chains binding his wrists behind his back would allow. Rust pricked at his skin, threatening to cut his arms if he struggled recklessly. He didn’t. Dedue stilled himself, conserving his energy.

At first, he had tried to count the days. Dedue freed Dimitri in Great Tree Moon - or no, was it Lone Moon then? What had it been, a few months? Several? Dedue had tried to measure the passing days in hidden tick marks carved into the lowest stone bricks. Dukedom soldiers carted haggard, unwashed bodies in and out of the prison cells. Days dragged on, always the same. The same questions, the same stale bread, the same whips and clubs in the same sodden dungeon chamber.

“Where is the traitor prince?” A soldier asked. Leather straps seared across his back. How should Dedue even know? Dimitri could be anywhere, and if he was clever, he would be nowhere with a name to give. The soldier knew that Dedue wouldn’t talk. They all knew; it had been months, they must know by now. Dedue accepted his fate and the agony that came with it.

“Who did you work with?” Still, they drew it out. The whip cracked down again, this time across his stomach. Fresh scarlet blood mingled with his sweat, stinging as it dripped down to the pounded earth below.

“Where is Byleth Eisner?” Three unforgiving strikes this time, reawakening the mangled tissue along his sides. He roared in pain - a weakness, an inch given. Damnit. Dedue grit his teeth, bracing for the next blows.

* * *

Faint stars shone through light cloud cover, clinging onto the last few hours before dawn. Bells rang out through the castle. Dukedom banners burst into flames, ignited by wooden beams collapsing into the castle halls below. Frenzied shouts echoed off the stone walls, calling guards to action. Dedue collapsed behind a boulder outside the gates, mere meters away from the treeline. Heavy breaths fogged the late winter air before him. Dimitri stumbled forwards, ducking for cover at his side. They had escaped the castle. They’d cut through dozens of guards and set the halls ablaze to hamper reinforcements. The horses have spooked, the army set on edge, yet… It’s two men against an entire kingdom. 

A year ago, Dimitri might have been able to cut through a kingdom - or half of one. Now, bright, warm skin has dulled to chalky, mottled patches along his arms and chest, where his ribs jut up against wasted muscle. His hair frays out in brittle strings, his shoulders sag with wear. His eyes - Dimitri’s _eye_ burns a strange blue, frenzied and primal. They didn’t have time to talk about why Dimitri was missing an eye.

For his part, Dedue remained a staunch shield, stronger even than he had been in their academy days. He trained before the coup, he planned each detail with Rodrigue’s assistance and tirelessly practiced the combat arts Professor Byleth had taught him years ago. Yet still, he could not hold against the waves and waves of soldiers - not forever. Stray blades and crushing blows found their way past his armor, and one damned lucky archer sunk an arrow into the back of his knee, just between plates of his armor.

Both men were heavily wounded, but Dimitri’s frantic strength pushed him forward, while the heavy armor and scorching wounds sapped at Dedue’s will to move. His muscles screamed out for exertion, his motions grew sluggish, If he shed his armor, Dimitri might have the strength to shoulder Dedue as they trudged on into the forest, but no - they would be too slow. Dedue was too weak now, and they hadn’t the time to dawdle. Black sparks bounced along the edges of his vision. Dedue would only slow him down.

“Your Highness, you must leave.” Dedue nodded towards the forest, mustering just enough strength to ready his shield and axe once more. One final stand. He could stall them for long enough… “I will hold them at bay.”

“Dedue…” Dimitri hugged a swath of thin, moth-bitten fabric close, teeth chattering in the wind. “I am not deserving of such a sacrifice. Please...” A single crazed blue eye scanned the treeline for an answer - a cart, a crutch, anything. They didn’t have time - there was no time...

“I swore to give my life for your cause, Your Highness.” Dedue swallowed, grimacing at the metal pooling in his mouth, “Please allow me to fulfill my oath.”

“No, it isn’t right. I won’t allow this,” Weary tears budded at the corners of his eyes, “I will - I can carry you forward.”

* * *

It took three soldiers to move him in and out of his cell. Dedue limped along, cooperating where he could. It wasn’t the soldiers’ fault. They weren’t the ones who ordered his imprisonment - his _interrogation_.

They dumped him in a different cell that time, one on the outer edge of the dungeon with a tiny, barred window high up on the wall. His markings are gone; he loses count of the days, but the sun - Dedue could see the grey sunlight stream in through the gaps, and it’s something, anything. For a moment, he hoped to see the moon, too. 

The sun dipped low in the sky, and the soldiers entered his cell once more, this time with oak buckets that sloshed with each step. They doused him in icy water and offered him up to the chill of early spring nights in Faerghus. Shivers wracked his body, frigid needles pierced through his temples, but the air wasn’t cold enough to kill, only enough to torment him and disturb the few fitful hours of rest he usually managed.

Dedue didn’t see the moon.

* * *

“Your Highness,” Clanking footsteps trampled through the stone halls, only moments away from bursting through the main doors of the palace. Dedue grit his teeth. “You must flee.” Dimitri pulled tattered sheets closer around his shivering form. He looked small. Smaller than Dedue had ever seen him, even all those years ago, when they both trembled in the aftermath of the Tragedy and grasped desperately for any semblance of a lifeline they could find. Dedue’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. This was hard. Leaving that shaking boy alone was hard - of course it was hard, but it was necessary.

“Dedue…” Dimitri’s mouth hung open, searching for an excuse, for a plan - anything to save them both, and yet nothing came. They were wasting time, Dimitri needed to leave, and soon. “There must be something we can-”

“Dimitri.” He snapped, “You once wished us to be friends. If you truly think of me as more than a vassal, then please, grant me the freedom to choose my own fate.” Adrenaline coursed hot through his veins as he stood. Guards spilled out of the gates, charging towards the bridge leading into the field. Dedue would die here, but he knew that from the beginning. No cost was too great.

“But this-” 

“Do not let my sacrifice be in vain.” Dedue shoved him backward, into the treeline. “Now go.”

* * *

The questions, the lashings, the blurring sleep, and cloudy sunlight - it all faded together, it all faded away eventually. Dedue sunk into his own body, deep in the thick mire of his own mind. He insulated himself from the pain, from the horror of it all. His voice cracked and faltered, then vanished altogether. It burned, always, but he could no longer find the presence to open his mouth and scream.

And yet, far away as he was, he noticed when the buckets of ice stopped, and when his next cell offered him a crude straw mattress instead of only stiff, uneven tiles. He noticed when the other prisoners vanished with the passing days, and he was left alone with his echoing thoughts and the harsh clink of cold iron chains. He never thought to talk to the other prisoners. Even in the darkest, most rotten dungeons of Fhirdiad, the Faerghan prisoners would think themselves above the likes of him. Still, he should have tried - at least once.

The guards were less careful with Dedue then; they thought him broken. In some ways, perhaps he was. His words failed him, yes, but his eyes remained sharp. His mind wasn’t lost, not completely. He had earned a level of trust, or perhaps neglect. Guards chained his wrists in front of him, he regained some control over his limbs. He could lay down, he could sit freely, touch his face and his skin - the parts that weren’t constantly aching red and raw. 

Perhaps they had forgotten, or perhaps they had given up on their search for answers. Good. Dedue had none to give. Soon, there would be no reason to keep him alive. They thought him broken, harmless, right?

Dedue rolled onto his stomach, pressing his bound palms to the ground, struggling to push himself up. His muscles had wasted away. His back cried out for mercy, torn and broken. But he pushed. Everything hurt, every inch of him, but bit by bit, Dedue fought for control over his body once more. In the nights, when guards nodded off and grew lax, he trained. He reawakened a familiar burn in old, useless muscles and saved his energy to teach his limbs to remember the strength they once held. He feasted on the bland, half-gone rations and bared wrists in submission each time the guards came for him. He played along, hoping they would be as inattentive when he faced the block.

* * *

Weeks passed. Only two guards came to take him to the torture chamber. Dedue was lighter now. Frailty masked his hidden, budding strength. Of course, ‘strength’ was a gross exaggeration. On a good day, if his wounds were mostly healed, he might be able to subdue one guard - two with extraordinary luck. It wouldn’t be enough. 

More half-hearted questions. A guard shoved him to his knees, grinding his skin into rough pounded dirt below. He snapped a leather whip in the air a few times, scarcely missing Dedue’s jaw. Intimidation tactics. All routine procedures Dedue was well acquainted with at this point. More questions still. Another guard entered the room, whispering something far too faint for Dedue to make out.

Strands of thorny, metal beads tore at his skin as a frayed whip crashed across his back again and again. Coppery crimson oozed from the wounds, spilling down his back. Dedue hated this one. Beads scatter in the air, scratching over raw skin and partially-healed scabs alike. The pain isn’t as bad, it isn’t as forceful, but the _itch_ \- the skin stings much worse, as though they had thrown salt over his wounds rather than iron.

Another guard drove his boot into Dedue’s stomach, babbling more pointless questions, some threat maybe - he must be new, he must not know the futility. Blood dribbled from his lips. This level of pain… Perhaps they had noticed their neglect, perhaps they were making up for their recent mercy.

The heavy oaken door creaked open. A man cloaked in black, hooded silk entered the room, steps quiet over the damp tiles. Silent, almost.

“M’lord.” The guards excused themselves. Two robed figures filed into the room after the first - mages, all three, reeking of dark magic. The hooded man picked through an array of torture implements the Dukedom had assembled. Whips, knives, and stranger things yet. The man sighed. Apparently, none were to his liking. Finally, he stepped closer, sliding back his hood to reveal short waves of jet-black hair tumbling between narrowed, piercing eyes the color of wilting grass.

“Dedue Molinaro.” Hubert von Vestra smiled, slow and sickening. “I’ve had my eye on you for some time.” Dedue’s shoulders sagged between the shackles, groaning as the mages turned a wooden wheel to reel his chains upwards, forcing him onto his feet once more. His legs burst into dark pinpricks, numb from kneeling.

“You and I are much alike, you know.” Hubert unbuckled the clasp on a dark leather case, setting his own _devices_ on the table. Dedue forced himself not to look. “Always the faithful vassal, willing to do anything for the good of his master, even die.”

“Perhaps we are.” Dedue rasped. His voice broke, unsteady. When had he spoken last?

“My apologies for leaving you in the hands of such amateurs.” To his credit, Dedue caught a note of genuine - or excellently-faked compassion in his tone. “Truly, I respect you a great deal. Behind every great ruler lies a retainer willing to do the unthinkable.”

The unthinkable… Another man might add caveats. Another man might draw lines in the sand or cling to a moral compass, to religion or a code. Another man might follow his own will, but Dedue… Dedue was a weapon - a simple tool. He swore an oath. If Dimitri ordered him to do the unthinkable, Dedue would doubtlessly execute his given task. Hubert was a venomous snake, a viper hidden in the shadows, always ready to strike, and yet in this, they were the same. In this, neither of them were men, but tools. Extensions of their lords’ wills.

“You’re a difficult man to break, Dedue.” Hubert continued. “Of course, I would expect no less. We are resilient, you and I. Your strength would be valued in the Adrestian Empire, while your liege’s people think you less than a mutt. Yet you serve them still.”

“And the Empire praises you?”

“I suppose it’s true that many Adrestians think I am a monster. A snake.” Hubert murmured, hushed, “But not due to the circumstances of my birth.”

“Perhaps I truly am a monster. Even so - I chose this path.” Bony, pale fingers brushed against his own array of metal tools, landing on a small, thin blade. “And you, Dedue? Are you truly a heartless beast as they say?”

“They are not wrong.” Dedue croaked, “Weapons have no will of their own. My own feelings are irrelevant.” Hubert’s dry, unfeeling chuckle grated against his ears.

“Heh. You certainly seem to believe so. I might too, had I no proof of the alternative.” He pressed the flat of the blade along Dedue’s sternum, digging in only a touch too light to break Dedue’s skin. “Long did I ponder exactly what might make you break, until I recalled our time at the academy.”

“Do you remember those days?” Dedue stayed silent, face as level as he could manage. “Pity, it’s more fun if you speak.” He stared past the mage, off into the far shadows of the room. He wouldn’t give Hubert the satisfaction. “Oh, well. I do love a challenge.”

“I remembered that precious little archer of yours. Ashe, was it?” Dedue managed to keep his face stoic, though his body betrayed his feelings, stiffening at Ashe’s name. A small dot of blood beaded on his skin where the tip of Hubert’s knife pricked through. Ashe, his little ray of moonlight, even in the ice-cold nights. Dedue would die here, alone in a rotting cell or on the executioner’s block. No Goddess, no Ashe, no other side awaited him, but Dedue could dream of his love until then. He could lose himself in their brightest memories, even as guards beat and burned his skin to a bloody, singed pulp. They might meet again in the next life. A happier life, hopefully.

“Ah, now you seem to recall.” Hubert dragged the blade’s tip along his skin, carving a thin, shallow line down his chest. Where was Ashe? What had they done? He couldn’t ask, he couldn’t reveal the depth of his concerns.

“I wished to bring you his body - truly, I did. I’m not so cruel that I would deny you the chance to see him one last time. To let him rot in front of you, inches out of your reach…” Hubert smiled, “And yet if he had survived, he would have been a wonderful performer. I have many lovely games that require an assistant.”

“What…” Dedue rasped, “What did you do…” Worry tore out of his throat before he could punch it down. Damnit. Hubert wormed into his head, he crawled under his skin, puppeting Dedue into his trap.

“My soldiers got carried away. I’m afraid there wasn’t much left.” Hubert sighed, voice thick with a sickly-sweet mockery of sympathy, “My apologies.” Despite his weariness, despite his practiced restraint, rage flared up in his chest, far more potent than any blade’s edge. Hubert did his work well, insidious as it was. Dedue’s grip tightened around his chains as he tried to ground himself.

“I wonder…” Hubert guided the point of the blade to his sternum, then a hair to the side. Carefully, he traced down the gap between his ribs, just over his heart. Blood trickled from a new cut as the tip of the blade bit into his skin. “Two years later, did you really think he still loved you?” Dedue lunged forward against the chains, driving his dagger deep, deep into his chest. Just a touch deeper, and it would pierce his heart. He could rest… Dedue struggled forwards, but Hubert dropped the hilt, stepping back.

“Oh, you didn’t think I would let you out so easily, did you?” The dagger stuck in his chest, less than an inch too shallow to pierce his heart. Hubert flicked his wrist, calling a timid mage forth from the shadows. “Heal him. Keep him alive, nothing more.” 

“Y-yes m’lord.” The mage stepped forward. Green and gold sparks clung to his wounds. Tissue burned with exertion as magic forced it to stitch itself back together. Hubert wrenched the dagger from his chest.

“Love is the death of duty.” A sad smile spread across his face, “It doesn’t belong to us monsters.” He tossed a crumpled, torn letter onto the floor. Much of the writing was smudged and illegible, but a small piece of his unmarked blue wax seal remained intact.

_Ashe,_

_There is much that I wish to say..._

Blotches of distorted ink clouded the tear-stained parchment.

“Though it seems you bleed like a man.” Hubert turned to leave, beckoning his mages to follow. “His body may still be of use to the Empire.”

* * *

Ashe slunk against a wall, twisting the woolen knots of his oversized blankets. Thin sheaves of moonlight filtered through a high, barred window, illuminating Ashe’s monastery room. Books littered the floor, scattered all around the room in disarray. Winds howled outside, far more ferocious than Dedue ever remembered them being, even so high in the mountains. A thin wisp of smoke floated up from their tiny, sweet-scented candle as a frigid breeze snuffed it out.

“Y-you left…” Ashe clutched at his white, tattered silks. Violet bruises coiled around his neck. He yelped as a lance stabbed through his side, molten hot as it seared through his skin.

“Ashe,” Dedue stumbled forward, but thick iron chains jerked him back “I-”

“It’s alright,” Blood spattered out of his mouth, painting his lips red, “R-really, I… I know how important His Highness is to you.” An arrow punctured his shoulder. Scarlet blood gushed out of his wounds, soaking through the silk to paint it a cruel red.

“Forgive me, please…” Dedue wept openly. A dream, of course. A terrible nightmare. His words hardly mattered. Ashe would never hear him, but he had to try. Maybe his spirit...

“It’s okay,” Ashe tried to smile, “I just wish I could have been… Enough…” A sword pierced through his throat. His weak smile went slack. Slowly, the light began to fade from his eyes, and Dedue couldn’t look away. Ashe began to wither. His skin cracked and crumbled, and Dedue couldn’t tear his eyes away. He couldn’t close his eyes - he didn’t want to see, didn’t want to watch - why couldn’t he close his damned eyes?

* * *

The whips vanished. The blades were sheathed, then taken back to the armory. Mages took over. Each day, guards dragged his stumbling body to the torture chamber, dumping his chained form in the center to serve as target practice for the black-cloaked mages. Dedue was too weak to withstand more than a single spell, but the twisted, evil bishops rebuilt his body over and over with faith magics, only to tear him down again and again. Always a biting blast of dark magic, then a blisteringly painful heal. Blazing heat spread under his skin, awakening every nerve. Glittering gold magic forced his skin together, coaxed his body to make a feeble attempt at healing before the next spell singed his skin away once more. 

Hours at a time, maybe. Each time, the torment lasted an eternity longer. If Dedue braced himself, if he began to resist the pull of their spells, another, stronger mage would take the place of the last. He shouted until his voice fell hoarse, he leaned into the pain and let it drive away his grief. Dedue waited for the mages to lose control, to misjudge their own strength and kill him, once and for all. He silently begged for it.

Such a day never came. They kept him alive, to some bitter end Dedue couldn’t begin to fathom. His muscles ached and tore, but the rage - the vengeance pushed him forth. Guards pinned him down and pried open his mouth while mages spilled skins full of milk and vile herbs down his throat. Wretched, bitter herbs not at all meant for human consumption. Acrid, fire-tasting things that made his mind fog over and his chest burn with unfocused fury. A thick haze slipped over his senses, numbing the screaming, ruined tissue at his sides. Each movement grew heavy, leaden under their curse. The pain grounded Dedue. Without it, he lost himself to the abyss. His muscles grew stronger, replenished by the milk and now bountiful rations. The mindless beast consumed him, numb to pain, deprived of any control. 

He ate, he trained, and when his mind was his own, Dedue fought and looked for a way out - any way out, not of the cell, but of the beast. Out of the leaden shell strung along for some insidious plan. He fought until the mages returned with their herbs and spells. Magic. Grief and magic - that was all it took to break him, in the end. Dark mages flung acid and fire at him when he resisted, bound him with those awful, choking curses that that slowed his body and mind. The mindless beast obeyed. It kneeled. It wept when they carved runes into his skin with silver knives, but it obeyed.

“Drink.” Dedue struggled away from the waterskin held to his lips. Even as fire scorched across his limbs, as his mind swam in a feverish delirium, he tried to refuse. He only - he simply didn’t want the numbness. Not again. Please...

“I know it hurts.” A soft voice murmured, so familiar. “You’re really dehydrated.” Dedue dug his nails into the soft stone below. Soft?

“I need you to fight…” Cool fingers swept across the burning skin of his jaw. Dedue shivered, “Can you fight for me, _my heart_?”

Ashe. It sounded so much like Ashe. Dedue squinted, but his eyes were too misty - too unfocused. The light was different. The smells and sounds were different. The scratchy, thatched floor was different, but Dedue had been tricked before, and far too often by his own mind. Still, he… Trick or not, he couldn’t bear to say no. Not to Ashe. When Dedue finally succumbed to his wounds, Ashe would be the spirit to guide him to the other side, though he hardly deserved such grace.

Dedue relented. He let his lips part with the tiniest of nods, accepting the cooling stream of water tailed by scorching pain. His parched throat screamed out for more, crackling under the wet burn again and again until the waterskin ran empty. It burned, everything burned. Thin, angular needles of pain pierced through his throat. The angel murmured something he didn’t understand. Something soft brushed against a rare, unmarred patch of skin at his temple. He smelled fresh, crushed mint, only for a moment. 

Dedue must have imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a light at the end of this tunnel...


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, Dedue looked peaceful in his sleep. Ashe gazed down at him, awestruck by the divide between his soft, steady breathing and… _everything else_. Endless, grotesque wounds littered Dedue’s skin, so many it hurt to look. Ashe’s stomach turned. He’s seen his fair share of wounds at this point, from the monastery and from war-torn villages. It’s not the blood or bruises that makes his hands shake, it’s not the jagged tears or the jaundiced skin, it’s the pain. Dedue was in pain, Dedue _hurt_ , and Ashe wasn’t by his side. 

He can’t count them all. Sharp, precise cuts and ugly, twisted wounds crawled across his skin. Magical brands and deep green bruises colored ravaged patches of his skin. Ashe couldn’t even imagine how he got some of the stranger, gnarled wounds that cut deep into his flesh, and he didn’t want to. The thought of Dedue suffering hurt so, so much. It hurts so much that it’s numb. Ashe had given up on him - how could Ashe have given up on him? He can’t think about that now.

Some wounds had started to heal, others looked older. Broad, fully healed scars cut across his back, interrupted by newer, oozing wounds and strange sigils carved deep into his skin. The sharp cuts looked recent. Deep lacerations yellowed and burned at the edges - a clear sign of infection. With the wisewoman’s help, Ashe mixed a thick herbal elixir to help clean the wounds. They’ll only get worse without proper cleaning, but it will hurt, and badly. Ashe didn’t have time to look for herbs for the pain, and he hadn’t found any on his most recent travels. He shouldn’t have traded away his own stock in the last town he crossed through, but he couldn’t have known. Ashe laid a cool, damp cloth on his forehead, surveying the tattered mess of bloody cuts on his chest. There’s so much… Where should he even start?

“What happened to you, my love?” Ashe murmured. 

If it had to hurt, maybe Dedue would want it to be Ashe. Gods, that was a silly thought - it’s been two years, nearly three… What else has changed? He’s loved this man for so many moons, he’s long forgotten what it was like not to pine over his gentle touch and those quiet, river-stone eyes. But Ashe was always so… He needed Dedue so much, then and now. Ashe has healed, at least most of the way, but even now, it’s Dedue that pushes him forward. Dedue pulled him from the river and helped Ashe dry the bitter cold waters. Ashe wanted him to be proud; he _needed_ Dedue to be proud because then it would all be worth something.

But Dedue… Dedue never needed him, not really, not in the same way. He was kind. He confided in Ashe, and he slept better by Ashe’s side, but his world probably didn’t crumble after the battle. He knew what to do with himself when -

Well, Dedue probably didn’t grieve him, because he wasn’t silly enough to jump to conclusions like Ashe. Gods, had he left too early? Did Dedue search for him? Did he think Ashe had vanished, or did they pass each other unknowingly, strangers on the road? Surely, Dedue had his hands full with the chaos in Fhirdiad, but Ashe had given up his true name long before Cornelia truly took power. He’d given up for so long… Dedue probably moved on in all that time.

Ashe gently brushed a wet cloth over the amber skin, wiping away old blood while carefully avoiding reawakening dormant wounds. In another time, he might have thought to memorize the curves and lines of his skin and the way Dedue felt under his hands. But now… Now, those beautiful, toned lines were crisscrossed with awful jagged cuts and bumpy, angry burns. A circle of strange glyphs lie branded into his back, curving across his shoulders. Some were old, darkened things that had healed without a proper salve, others were newer, still burning pink, and others, the newest, trickled blood from cracked scabs. Ashe didn’t know much about magic, but… Annette never did anything like this, she never hurt anyone like this. It looked dark. It looked _wrong_.

Herbalism has gotten him this far. He never learned faith magic in school - not beyond closing tiny splinter wounds - but he should have asked the Professor to teach him. It got harder after Lonato died. After the church executed him, that is. Lonato was so devout, and they… they didn’t even give him a chance! Of course, Ashe knew he wouldn’t have taken it. The Professor commanded him to hold fire, they tried to show him mercy, but Lonato wouldn’t accept it. He fought until the end, and even then, even when he fell, Lonato was somehow so sure that the Goddess was on his side. Ashe grieved him. He tried to untangle the reasoning behind his actions because he knew it wasn’t senseless - Lonato wasn’t unreasonable. He tried to think it out, but then everything went bad so, so quickly. Ashe never really figured it out.

Ashe wasn’t really sure what he believed in anymore. He’s had a lot more time to think these days. The Goddess must be real - the Professor was proof of that - he just wasn’t so sure that the Goddess was _kind_. There’s so much war in the world, all over the continent… So much bloodshed, so much anguish over these blessed _crests_ … It’s hard to put faith in a creator that just watches as her creations destroy each other so violently. Herbs don’t require faith. You don’t have to believe in herbs for them to save you - they’ll work if you mix them right and if you’re strong enough to heal. Ashe prefers that, at least over a capricious Goddess.

And yet, what happened the other day… Those colorful sparks, the sudden cold in his hands as he pressed back the bleeding - Ashe wasn’t really sure how to explain that. He wasn’t asking the Goddess for help. He wasn’t really asking anyone, he just wanted Dedue to live! The wisewoman didn’t say anything about it, but he didn’t ask - he didn’t have the presence of mind to ask if she knew what it was. Ashe didn’t even remember to ask her name, and she was kind to him anyway. 

She let him stay, at least for the night. Ashe tended to Dedue’s wounds while she crushed their herbs together with oil and salts, mixing thick, colored concoctions to help with the healing. He stripped away his old, bloodied bandages and carefully cleaned the wounds while she stirred a spiced potato curry for the three of them. Ashe should be the one to cook, really. The wisewoman was probably far more practiced in medicine, even counting all the wounds Ashe had patched up on the road, but… Ashe can’t see past Dedue right now - he can’t look away, he can’t think straight unless he’s helping.

Ashe smooths a lump of the bitter herbal paste over a raw, cracking scar on Dedue’s stomach, wincing as it begins to foam and sizzle against the infection. Dedue’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t wake. He doesn’t even flinch away.

* * *

Riya, the wisewoman, tends a small garden behind her hut. It’s mostly planted with common aromatic herbs for cooking and fragrance oils, but a sunny corner is devoted to healing plants. Silverroot for inflammation, dewberries for burn salves, and honeylilies for poison antidotes - and those are just the few Ashe recognizes from Lonato’s books. He never learned about the ones from Duscur - he doesn’t know their names and uses yet, but he wants to learn. Most of his own seeds from Gaspard won’t hold up in the northern winters, and it’s too early to plant them now with the late autumn chill already creeping in.

Ashe couldn’t sleep. The town sat silent and still, save for errant hoots from owls perched high in the trees. A few lamps glowed through the trees as scouts circled the small town during their night watches. Riya and Dedue slept soundly by the stone fire pit, all the warmth of last night’s log long since extinguished. Dedue’s chest shook as it rose and fell, but he almost looked at home under the bulky knit blankets - peaceful, even. Ashe hadn’t been able to find such peace. So much had happened over the past few days, and Ashe hadn’t had the time to pick it apart and make sense of it all. It’s still all so absurd, like a waking dream that he’s stumbling through. He can’t properly fit the facts in front of him into his reality.

The sun has only just begun to think about rising. Tiny slivers of dawn peeked through the far trees, casting long shadows over the town. The air was still a little chilly, but Ashe shrugged on his coat and slipped into the garden. He tries to start from the beginning.

1.) He’s in Duscur, or the closest thing that still exists.

2.) Dedue is here, and he’s alive.

Ashe has always dreamed of visiting Duscur and learning more about their culture. Maybe it’s not the same as Dedue’s Duscur, but it’s the real Duscur. It’s proof that all the blood and fire the Kingdom could muster couldn’t kill the hearts of Duscur people. It’s not exactly as it once was, but it’s something new and beautiful and true all the same. They’re resilient. They’ve rebuilt. Maybe they almost killed him, but Ashe can forgive them for that. He understands why. Dedue would be proud - um - Dedue probably _is_ proud of them, because… He’s alive.

It’s that part, the second point, that Ashe can’t get past. Dedue is alive. If he repeats it to himself a hundred more times, maybe it’ll make sense. He starts with what he knows. Somewhere, somehow, Dedue’s broken body was carried to Duscur. Riya told him the soldiers brought him back from Fhirdiad, but he can’t begin to think of why Dedue would still be in Fhirdiad? His wounds got infected on the way back, and he tore out his stitches the other day, and that made everything much worse, but he’s okay now, and he’s okay because… Because of Ashe? Something he did, something he said maybe, something turned into those colorful, magic sparks and Dedue stopped bleeding so badly.

Ashe can reconcile some things. He can ignore the magic, he can accept that Dedue got stuck in the Dukedom, but he’s _alive_ , and Ashe has spent the past few years grieving him. He hoped Dedue would return until his heart grew sore from hoping, and he had to stop so he didn’t tear himself apart with disappointment as each silent moon passed. Dedue is here, Dedue is alive, and Ashe is so… overwhelmed? It’s worry and relief and love and loss all mixed into one, and he’s grateful but so stunned he can’t think or feel anything clearly.

“I’m sorry…” Ashe knelt by a patch of wildflowers blooming under the potted honeylilies. “I, um… I don’t know if I’m doing any of this right.” He asked once, but Dedue never taught him how to properly pray to the Duscur gods. Ashe has probably been doing it all wrong - he’s probably doing it wrong now, but he has to try to thank them, at least. Ashe just hopes his mistakes aren’t too offensive. He’s not in a temple or anything; he’d probably make a fool of himself in a Duscur temple. Besides that, it’s far too early in the morning to venture out into the town. But the garden, well… Dedue always made it seem like a holy place.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but thank you… Thank you for bringing him back to me.”

* * *

When the sun finally rose above the treetops, Riya woke and called Ashe in for breakfast. Rice and eggs, flavored with yellow spices Ashe couldn’t fully identify. Turmeric for sure, and he tasted some cinnamon too. Ginger, maybe? 

“You must have questions.” The wisewoman set a steaming teapot on the table, pouring them each a mug of dark, spiced tea swirling with tiny shreds of lemon peel. Ashe did have questions. He had a lot of questions, actually - only he didn’t know exactly where to start.

“What… Um, what happened to him?” It’s broad. It’s a lot to ask about, and Ashe knew it was probably a long story, but he wanted to hear it all. At least, as much as Riya could tell him. Nothing fits right in his mind right now; he needed to know, even if it hurt.

“Many moons ago, your friend visited our settlement. He planned to rescue the prince from Fhirdiad and asked for aid. Kabir, our leader, thought it was a suicide mission, and we do not have men to spare.” She grimaced, “We gave him only our blessings.”

“I… That sounds just like him.” To some extent, he knew that Dedue would never care enough about his own safety, but still… How could he be so reckless?! They were right to think it a suicide mission - if the stories he’s heard on the road are correct, then Cornelia had armored beasts even more fearsome than the things they fought at the monastery! “How is he still alive?”

“I do not know everything, child. The men freed him from Fhirdiad weeks ago but returned only a few days past. They took too long. His wounds became infected.” Riya took a shaky sip of her tea, “Some of our warriors were lost.”

“I’m so sorry. I know that my words can’t bring them back, but I thank you. I owe all of you a great debt. Anything you need, I’ll do all I can to help.”

Lead sunk to the pit of his stomach. Dedue was alive, but at a cost. People gave their _lives_ to bring Dedue back home - men he’d never even met. Ashe didn’t know their names and faces; he couldn’t properly thank them now, but he would hold them close in his prayers. Dedue once told him that Duscurs don’t ascend to live with the Goddess after they die, but Ashe hoped that whatever waited for those men on the other side was just as heavenly.

“ _My heart_. You are lovers, then?” Ashe blushed, choking down his sip of tea. Riya’s lips twitched upwards.

“We were, once…” He coughed, “It’s been a few years since we last saw each other.”

“Do you love him still?” 

Riya was blunt, Ashe had learned. They hadn’t spoken much in the past few days, but she held back none of her thoughts when they did speak, especially the ones about Faerghus and its people. Dedue was blunt too, only he was also very soft-spoken. Sometimes, Ashe was the only one privy to his candid thoughts. He took special pride in that.

“I thought he was dead.” Ashe let out a trembling breath. His eyes stung with gathering tears. “For three years, I wondered what happened to him. I never heard anything from the capital, and he… We never found each other, so I thought…” Ashe sniffled into his sleeve.

Ashe knew the answer to her question. Yes. Of course, he still loved Dedue. He loved everything that Dedue was, from his gentle eyes to his quiet strength to all the tender care he put into his flowers. He loved his memories of Dedue, but even if he had changed a little, Ashe would love him all the same. Ashe would love his scars too. Even if he still had no regard for his own safety, even if he had tried his damndest to die for Dimitri, Ashe loved him. Unconditionally.

Only, Ashe also knows that he’ll never be Dimitri. He’ll never be what Dimitri was to Dedue. He won’t fill that prince-shaped hole in Dedue’s heart, and… It’s been nearly three years since they parted. What if Dedue doesn’t love him? He gave his life for the prince, or near enough. Ashe loves him even for that - it’s part of what makes him Dedue - but Ashe can’t help but doubt himself now. He can’t deny that he loves Dedue still, but he’ll couch his love in tamped down hopes and forced distance. At least, until he knows. The wisewoman poured more tea into his cup.

“T-Thank you.” Silent tears slipped down his cheeks, dripping into his mug “I still love him, but… I did, all that time. I don’t think I ever stopped loving him. And I thought - because he was dead - I thought I’d just never be able to love anyone ever again? B-because it could only ever be him…”

“It’s been a long time. I know… He might not feel the same. I left him - I wasn’t at his side, and I should have been. But…” Ashe swallowed down a new wave of tears threatening to spill over. “Seeing him alive is enough. I can’t thank you enough for caring for him. I’m in your debt.”

“I understand.” She looked to Dedue, still resting on a blanket of furs. “We were indebted to him. His actions saved many of the brave men and women in this settlement years ago. It is our honor to repay that kindness.”

“Still, you’ve been too generous already, I don’t want to put a strain on your resources.” Ashe shook his head, “Let me hunt for you. You’ve shown me so much hospitality, I don’t want to be a burden. I’d like to help provide for the village, at least while he’s healing here.”

“You will have to talk to Kabir. He is wary of outsiders knowing the woods. Now come,” Riya rose from the table, gathering up their clay bowls, “We have work to do.”

* * *

Late in the night, Dedue’s fever finally broke. The clouds in his eyes began to clear. His heart raced; his thoughts blurred together. Dedue shivered, clutching at his fleeting moment of clarity, a moment without the insidious herbs. His fingers scrabbled at the floor, weakly pushing him upwards so he could search for an exit, he can regain control, he can -

Scalded skin groaned and cracked as he flopped back down on the ground. His strength failed him, his muscles burned more than usual. Yet instead of smacking his shoulders against the tiles, the ground cushioned his fall. Dedue rolled onto his side, wincing as tender wounds stung with exertion. Woven grass thatching covered the floor in a soft, dry carpet over pounded earth. It’s so soft, far softer than the stone. He clutched his abdomen, feeling out a thick line of rough cotton bandages.

Damnit. His wounds still burned. Even the slightest motion made him woozy. He could think straight for once, but the darkness - gods - shadows threatened the corners of his vision. Bile rose up in his throat. Dedue rolled onto his back once more. He closed his eyes, imagining the stars as he tried to breathe. In, then out. He surveyed the span of his chest, tracing along the lines of bandages covering wounds he’d nearly forgotten. Some cover wounds he doesn’t remember getting at all. Perhaps it’s best he doesn’t remember.

Typically, the mages only heal him with faith magic. His skin tangles into ugly, monstrous scars from the exertion of trying to heal itself at breakneck speed. They only used natural medicine for slow-healing brands. Natural, unaided healing gives his body a chance to settle. To rest.

Who bandaged him? Why does his cell have a soft carpet? Why does he lie warm under a woolen blanket? Is it real? Dedue forced his eyes open again. Plain lumber and hay thatch covered the ceiling. A bitter, herbal scent floated through the air. Bits of blackened charcoal burned low over the fire pit. The warmth felt strangely familiar to Dedue, though he didn’t have time to make sense of things. His eyelids grew heavy once more. Soft, glowing embers lulled him back to sleep. At least this illusion was comforting. Dedue let himself rest.

* * *

Ashe was able to salvage some of Dedue’s hair. He couldn’t bring himself to cut all of it off, but the matting was really bad. It clearly hadn’t been taken care of, but that can’t have been Dedue’s fault. Dried blood stained his scalp under the mess. Ashe couldn’t begin to imagine what happened at Fhirdiad, but it must have been awful. Based on Riya’s recollection, he had to have been there for many moons. In time, he’ll ask. Dedue is healing, and as much as Ashe wants to know - as much as Ashe wants to share his burden, that pain is Dedue’s to give when he’s ready.

He’s never been a hairdresser, but he cut his siblings’ hair when it got too long, so he could at least try to make the lines straight. Ashe shaved the sides close, cutting away heavy chunks of snagged white locks. The back was even worse, so he cut most of that off too. Only the top is left intact, but at least it’s longer than it ever was before. Even tangled tight, it brushed his shoulders when Ashe let it down.

Still, what’s left was a mess. As Dedue slept off his illness, Ashe slid a basin of warm water beside his pillow. He lathered soap in his hands and tenderly combed through the strands as he washed them over the basin. Thin split ends broke and fell into the water with each pass. Dedue’s hair was weak and straw-like, but Ashe was careful not to tug too tightly. Ashe gently worked at the knots, determined to rescue as much as he could. He massaged dollops of oil into the tangles, coaxing them to slip loose. 

Dedue stirred with a groan. He’s awake. Ashe tried not to get his hopes up. He rolled onto his side, dripping soap onto the pillow. Dedue locked eyes with him, silently perplexed. Ashe couldn’t read him - at least, not as well as he used to. His expression was too complex. Cautious, anxious but reluctant. Dedue’s eyes flickered over Ashe’s hands, then his tunic rolled up at the elbows, then back to his own, mystified. Dedue swallowed... He’s waiting.

“Um… Hi…” Ashe chewed his lip. What was he supposed to say? For all his yearning, he hadn’t really figured out what to say… At least, he didn’t know what to say _first_.

“Ashe?” He creaked. Murky eyes gazed up at him, glinting with a faint spark of hope.

“It’s me.” Ashe smoothed away the tangled hair at his temple until Dedue stole his hand to press Ashe’s dripping, pale fingers to his cracked lips. His heart stuttered. He should kiss him - Ashe wanted to kiss him, but… No. He stayed for a moment. Dedue’s hand weakly dropped to his side. It’s too strange, like a dream converging on reality, and Ashe only believes it because he couldn’t have made all this up on his own.

“What… date is it?” Dedue rasped.

“Wyvern Moon. Uh, the tenth, I think?” Ashe smiled. Dedue seems lucid? At least, the most lucid he’s been lately. But he’s… Ashe still doesn’t know if this is real.

“Hm,” Dedue made a considering sound, “It will be your birthday soon.”

“What…” Ashe’s confusion cracked into a bright laugh. Dedue smiled. It’s so absurd. It’s just so… “How… How can you be thinking of that right now?” Thin tears painted streaks down his skin. Ashe tried to wipe them away with the backs of his hands but only succeeded in wetting the rest of his cheeks further. Dedue strained to reach up, brushing away the tears and soap with his thumb. 

“I am sorry,” His hand trembled. “I left-” Ashe caught his hand and cradled it there. Dedue’s touch - his real touch - was precious, even if it was weak.

“It’s alright, you’re here now.” Ashe pressed a gentle kiss to his wrist. He pulled away quickly, careful not to overstep. Dedue doesn’t… He might not feel the same.

* * *

Ashe knelt over him and combed through his hair as the firelight danced along the lines of his face. Soapy water dripped onto Dedue’s skin as Ashe’s fingers slipped in between his own, anchoring him close. Dedue traced a path between the freckles dusting his cheekbones. He couldn’t tell if it was truly Ashe, but he wanted so badly to believe. Jade eyes glowed with warmth, so real, and so, so close. Dedue shivered as featherlight lips brushed the inside of his wrist, free of his shackles for now. Dedue’s fingertips brushed up against soft locks of silver hair, longer than he remembered, and a touch less wild. Ashe’s jaw is sharper now. His smile is smaller, but his skin still feels of velvet beneath his own rough, scarred palms. Dedue studied him, tallying each detail he noted for later review, for even if this was a fantasy, he wished to remember it well.

“You’re safe, Dedue.” Ashe lowered his hand, “We’ll talk more when you’ve gotten some rest.” Dedue murmured his agreement. As if spellbound, his eyes slipped shut, willing him to sleep once more. His body ached and burned, but he hung onto the sensation of Ashe’s cool fingertips running along his neck, tangling in his hair. 

_“If you don’t believe it yet, that’s okay. Just pretend until you really do.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not the best at responding to comments, but I love reading your thoughts <3
> 
> One chapter closer to fluffy happiness :)


	5. Chapter 5

Birdcalls echoed through the air, sharp caws piercing through an otherwise melodious song. Small woodland animals rustled through the branches of a nearby tree. Stray breezes stirred silvery wind chimes. Nature was… unfamiliar to Dedue’s ear. Peaceful, gentle sounds - a far cry from the rhythmic drip of snowmelt onto the cracked tiles or stray hounds howling in the night.

Woolen blankets felt foreign against his skin, heavy on his chest. Thick, cotton bandages bound his torso together, patching over a myriad of burning wounds. His body ached, quietly throbbing and pulsing as the haze of sleep began to fade from his mind. A dull pain thudded through his head. Each dry swallow sent scorching shards down his throat. Without the constant influx of faith magic, Dedue’s weariness began to catch up to his body.

He struggled to push himself upright, eventually succeeding with the aid of a nearby wall. Though his ascent was shaky, he stumbled onto his knees, then to his feet, bracing himself against the paneled wood. No adrenaline or anesthetic blocked his pain now. His nerves protested the movement, but his limbs reluctantly obeyed, fighting tooth and nail against the atrophy his rest had allowed. Time and pain threatened to tear his body apart, but his muscles had not yet wasted away entirely, nor had his discipline. Dedue ached with each step, but this pain was his to command. One breath in, two slow breaths out. Steady.

Dedue limped over to a windowsill, leaning against the ledge. Warm sunlight streamed into the room. Through the glass, gold specks glittered across the distant water, thrown about by waves crashing against the rocky shore. Auburn and russet hues brushed across the treeline, heralding the last warm days of fall. The chill in the air… Humid, yet bright... This place felt familiar in a way Dedue couldn’t quite place. 

_“You’re awake.”_

A woman’s voice. Dedue quickly turned, careful not to lose his grip on the windowsill, careful not to reveal his surprise. She wore silk robes of Duscur that swished with each step. Long, sweeping panels of blue and yellow fabric, embroidered with flowers and traditional geometric patterns. Charms of carved metal and bits of nature cast in amber adorned her wrists and neck - a wisewoman, not a mage.

Dedue relaxed - he tried to, in any case. She was familiar, from the haze - though he had thought it all to be a dream. Even now, lucid, this land still felt like it had bloomed straight from his fractured memories. 

_“Why am I here?”_ Dedue’s voice came out cracked and raw. His words frayed between his lips. It had been too long since he had spoken in the Duscur tongue. His own language felt clumsy and foreign in his mouth. Briefly, before the cold, he met with his brothers to rally troops, but they had spoken in the common tongue then. Ah, perhaps… The settlement?

 _“You are home, my child.”_ She turned towards the archway with a gentle smile. Light caught on the metal bands clinking around her wrists as she offered Dedue a warm, weathered hand. _“Come, you must be starving.”_

 _“Thank you.”_ Dedue hesitated, _“And… the silver-haired one?”_ If she was real, perhaps Ashe was too…

 _“Do not worry, your lover will return by nightfall,”_ The wisewoman smiled knowingly. How had she known? Dedue blushed and looked elsewhere, though he couldn't so easily hide the small smile spreading across his face. If - if it wasn’t another, mystically beautiful, impossibly gentle ashen-haired Faerghan, he would grieve Ashe later. For now, he let himself hope.

How had she known? Heat rose into his cheeks. Dedue looked elsewhere, willing his face still as a stone, though he couldn’t so easily hide the small smile curling across his lips. If - somehow - it wasn’t another, mystically beautiful, impossibly kind ashen-haired Faerghan, he would face his disappointment later. For now, Dedue let the sunlight shine in his chest, lighter and sweeter than any chime or birdsong.

* * *

Pale, early morning light stretched across the sky, trickling through the treetops to the forest floor below. They had set out earlier in the morning before the sun rose in earnest. While the first leg of their ride was shrouded in darkness, they’d at least gotten an early enough start to ride out far enough that if any wayward scouts did spot them on their hunt, it would be pretty difficult to track them back to the settlement. Hopefully, they’d be back before dinner, too! Ashe usually hunted at his leisure - and close to his camp - but really, he was grateful they allowed him to hunt at all. 

Kabir, the war master, rode beside him on a huge grey warhorse clad in leather armor. They probably wouldn’t be getting into any fights, especially so early in the morning, but of course, it was better to be safe. Ashe brought his trusty bows of course: an old steel one for hunting, and a nice silver one with a heavy draw in case they got into real trouble. Imperial scouts could be anywhere. If they really had made a daring escape from Fhirdiad, then Cornelia probably wouldn’t let them go without retribution.

Buttermilk stepped through the tall grass, whinnying with disgust when her hoof landed in a patch of mud camouflaged under the fallen leaves. Okay, she could be a bit of a diva sometimes, especially compared to Kabir’s stoic warhorse, but Ashe would probably feel the same! The terrain here was a bit uneven, and the woods were thicker here than in the south. Both of them were tired from the past few days, but at least Buttermilk had probably slept well in the settlement’s covered stables.

Fall leaves swirled about in the light breeze. Squirrels and rabbits scurried from branch to branch and bush to bush. Of course, they would hunt bigger game today, but on the way, Ashe kept his eyes peeled for berries and herbs to forage. He still hadn’t learned all the northern plants, but he found plenty that grew in the south as well, and he recognized a few from Lonato’s books. Still, he should probably talk to Riya before he tried to use any of the unfamiliar ones. Kabir humored him when he occasionally slid off Buttermilk to gather pouchfuls of this and that. He never said much.

Actually, the silence was… suffocating at first. Ashe wasn’t really sure what he should say or do, or worse, if he had already said or done something wrong. Kabir watched him like a hawk. Ashe knew he had to, that was the whole point of accompanying him, after all, but, well, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Kabir had already passed judgement on him - and that his judgement wasn’t kind. 

Yet, the longer they rode together, his silence became softer. It wasn’t so stifling, it felt a little more natural. Kabir knew the woods well. It wasn’t warm or comfortable like what he had with Dedue or Lonato; his silence was almost like meditation. Serenity, maybe. Ashe could relate to that. All these years, he’d felt at home with a tree to his back and the crackle of a small campfire, and silence save for his pan flute and the sounds of nature. Ashe and Buttermilk explored the woods in their own little world, and next to him, Kabir did the same. They rode alone, together.

When he did finally speak up, Ashe nearly fell off his horse.

“Duran. My apologies for our first meeting.” Kabir steered his horse away from the dirt path, brushing aside a branch as he guided them further into the woods. Though gruff, his voice was quiet and polite. His words were honest - bare of the fanciness of nobles, though bare of commoner endearments and hyperbole as well. 

“Oh - um, that’s alright!” Ashe caught himself on his saddle, “I can see why you need to be so cautious. You have to protect your people.”

“Be that as it may, my apology stands.” He shook his head, “I judged you incorrectly.”

“Even so, I’m still alive,” Ashe caught a falling aspen leaf in his hand, plucking it out of the breeze. “And I’m glad I came.” 

As kids, when Lonato first taught Ashe and his siblings to ride, they’d play a game with Christophe each time. Catch a leaf, lick it, and stick it to your forehead. If you made it home with the leaf still on, you got an extra sweet for dessert! Ashe knew now it was to teach them balance and restraint, but… Those days seemed so far away now.

“Truly?” Kabir snorted. “Is the land as wondrous as you dreamed?”

“Maybe the woods aren’t so different,” Ashe countered, “But the people are, and it’s much more colorful than where I’m from!”

“You ventured this far to meet Duscurs?” Kabir peered over at him, disbelieving.

“Um, actually, I came for the food.” Ashe laughed. Kabir’s smile cracked into a hearty, boisterous laugh alongside his own. “Dedue showed me how to make it,” Ashe shook his head, “But I could never make it right on my own.”

“Molinaro?” Kabir raised an eyebrow, “Is he the friend you mentioned?”

“Ah,” Ashe focused on the tumbling leaves rather than facing the implications of calling Dedue a ‘friend’. Of course, that’s how he had introduced him when they met in the woods, but that was when he still wasn’t sure what was safe to say, and that was when Ashe thought he was dead!

“Yes…” Ashe toyed with a leather loop at the front of his saddle. It’d need a new coat of oil soon if he could manage to find some. “We were close before the war. I met him at the Officer’s Academy, actually.” 

The academy… That was so many moons ago now, and yet, Ashe remembered the Blue Lions class like they were family. Maybe, aside from his siblings, they were the closest thing he had left. If he rode to Castle Galatea, would Ingrid welcome him in with open arms, would they talk for hours about stories from the road and books of old? If he found Annette, whose family had declared for the Empire, would she still share pastries with him over tea? So much time had passed, and the world now looks nothing like it once did. Were they as unrecognizable as himself now?

“You are Ashe.” Kabir eyed him curiously. Wait - how did he know?!

“Oh, um,” Oh, goodness. Ashe didn’t want him to think that he’d lied about his name to be deceptive or anything, he just… “It’s been a while since I’ve gone by that name.”

“Hmph,” Kabir led them down a small dirt road, past a rotted wooden fence gate. “I see.”

He left it at that. Kabir didn’t pry, and Ashe didn’t offer anything more. Silence fell over them once again. Perhaps one day, he could speak freely of his travels, but not yet. For now, he would live as the mysterious man with two names, not the half-heir of a treasonous lord stripped of his lands. Of course, they probably wouldn’t care that Lonato rebelled against the church, but then, that story was more complex than it first seemed. For now, he’d stay silent.

Sometime later, Kabir led them along a thin path, barely visible under the sprouting weeds. Maybe it hadn’t been tread in many moons, but the beaten earth signified that once, it was well-traveled. A ruined cabin took shape as they wandered farther into the woods. Some chunks of the stone walls had held up, and a few rotting beams formed a skeleton of what must have once been a roof, although the thatch had worn away completely and exposed the interior to harsh rains and snowfall. High bushes of weeds shot up in an overgrown garden at the back of the cabin. Once, this might have been a cozy, homey place, but it had certainly seen better days.

A cabin like this, though - in the middle of the woods, who would have settled out here, so far from civilization? A few cracked stone tiles interrupted the carpet of mushy fall leaves, leading out to a smooth outcropping of rocks by a little stream, and - oh!

A steaming waterfall poured from a gap between a few larger boulders, trickling into a pool of clear water lazily rippling over the river stones. A hot spring! This must have been a bathhouse, once! Ah, he must have been dreaming! What could be better than a nice, hot bath… Goddess, his muscles longed for the steam, and winter was just around the corner! What better way to drive away the chill?

The forest just north of here is prime for hunting this time of year.” Kabir smiled, “Though this land has its uses as well. Hunting parties used to stop by often, though not since the settlement moved. This spring used to be right on the edge of our lands.”

“It needs some work, but I bet people would be glad to make the trip!” Alright, maybe it was a bit of a fixer-upper, but Ashe loved a community project - and, well, who could resist!

* * *

Breakfast was a mostly silent ordeal. Riya made pleasant enough company, but Dedue's mind constantly drifted towards the hours of sunlight fading ever so slowly, stretching out the time before evening. Here, now, Dedue had too many questions, and not the mind to put them into words. Riya was curious about his own journey, but she was careful not to pry beyond the small explanations he could offer. 

He shared what little knowledge he had of the prison, though Riya knew little of military affairs. Later, he would meet with Kabir and speak properly of the Kingdom's state in the war - and Duscur's, too. With Dimitri freed, perhaps there was still hope for Duscur to grow and live as a peaceful, independent state. However, none of that would happen with Cornelia and her Imperial lackeys in power. Many moons ago, eastern houses rallied to fight under the Blaiddyd banners, but was that still the case? What allies did they have, and what strength? False news of the prince's execution spread only days after Dedue's capture. With no promised lawful king, how many gave up the fight?

Dented remains of his old steel armor sat in a shapeless lump in a corner of Riya's small living quarters. They must have pulled it from the prison armory… Perhaps they had looted other supplies as well. Though broken beyond repair, good steel was hard to come by. Dedue’s plate had been quite an investment by the monastery. It had paid off. His armor and warded shield had saved him and his classmates many times in the past. If memory served… No, it had been quite damaged, he could not count on the small pocket he'd sewn into the cloth backing to remain intact. 

Though it was unusable in this state, the steel could be re-melted and reforged with enough heat. Trade rarely reached the settlement, as remote as it was. His ruined armor might be enough for a few greataxes. Kabir would have a better idea of what supplies his battalions needed. Until then, all Dedue could do was wait. Riya mostly left him to his own thoughts, until she broke the silence to pry. 

_"Duran. You love him?"_ Duran? That was not a name he knew, but- _"Faerghan. Silver hair."_ Yes. She must have been referring to Ashe, undoubtedly. Of course, they must have spoken.

 _"I do."_ Dedue pushed a few meandering grains of rice around the bottom of his bowl. _“It is complicated.”_

_"Which is complicated? Your mind, or your heart?"_

Dedue stayed silent for a moment. Riya wouldn’t stand for his non-answer; Ashe wouldn’t have either. Yet, that itself was the danger. Ashe would have insisted on staying by his side, and he would have suffered for it. Dedue would not cling to the safety of towns and settlements; instead, he journeyed deep into enemy territory. He swore to see Dimitri’s war through to the end, even if it must come at the cost of his life. It nearly had. Even now, each moment he spent resting was one he was not searching for his liege. Of course, he knew he was not well enough to forge on yet. Logically, he would certainly fall if he set off now, but once he healed, he would continue to search, as per his oath.

At his side, Ashe would be in more danger than he ever could be alone. Perhaps the Empire had not managed to kill him in truth, but Dedue imagined the worst if they were caught again. If Ashe was hidden somewhere in the wilderness, or deep in allied territory, he would be safe. Though, if they were together, Dedue could be his shield. At least, he could have some control over Ashe’s safety… But no - it was too much of a risk.

 _“I thought he was dead.”_ Dedue murmured. And that thought had killed him - the emptiness, the guilt had torn him apart from the inside. In dire times, thoughts of Ashe had been his strength, but doubly so his weakness. 

_"And dead, he is not,"_ Riya smiled. _"In fact, from where I'm sitting, he looks a hell of a lot better than you."_

_"He deserves a better man than I.”_

_"He deserves a man who loves him. Do you?"_

Yes. Of course, _yes_. Nothing else in this land, in his cruel cell or the smoldering rubble of Fhirdiad, and nothing in the heavens, none of the flowers blooming in has memories held the same light in Ashe’s eyes or the magic in his laugh. Perhaps it’s been years, and perhaps he had grown and changed, but his kindness stayed constant. Riya spoke again before he could answer.

 _“There is a house by the river, though it’s a bit of a wreck. The man living there fell in a skirmish some moons ago.”_ Riya sighed, _“I don’t have the floor space for two grown men in my house, not for weeks on end. If you can mend the roof before winter, it is yours. No house should stand empty - not in these times.”_

 _“I see.”_ Dedue nodded. _“I thank you.”_ Though weary, he could stand on his own two feet now, at least for a few moments at a time. Time would heal the rest. Some fresh air and space would do him good.

 _“There is no need to be so formal, my child. I can spare a few blankets and a cooking pot, but you’ll have to speak to the carpenter for lumber unless you fancy chopping your own.”_ She mopped up a few bits of curried rice up with a torn chink of thin bread. _“I trust you’ll heal with some time. My potions never fail. Visit if you need anything, anytime.”_

 _“Thank you, Riya. For everything.”_ Dedue’s first steps would be wobbly and unsure. The thought of living freely - independently - it was foreign. Overwhelming. Tomorrow, he would begin to heal on his own, but today… Tonight, he would rest and wait for the evening tide to come in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't posted in a while, life has been pretty busy with midterms and all. This is a shorter interlude, but there's much more to come (eventually)!  
> Thank you all for being patient (apparently some people are rude about updates, but you guys have always been lovely), and I hope you enjoy these tiny moments of light :)
> 
> I've always been bad about responding to comments, but I'm working on that. If I haven't responded to you in the past, know that I read all of them <3


	6. Chapter 6

Three stags and four snared rabbits later, the sun dipped low in the sky, a gentle warning to turn southward. All things considered, the hunt was fruitful, and they couldn’t have carried much more anyhow. Along the way, Ashe managed to collect a few satchels of berries and medicinal herbs. Moonshade to calm the pain, fire cassia for infection, and some, er, less _alchemical_ cures he happened upon, too. Nothing Lonato wouldn’t approve of! Just a little surprise for Dedue, once he woke.

“You’re quite a good shot.” Kabir hummed. “Better than any of my men, I’d wager. You learn all that at the academy?”

“Oh, um, thank you!” Ashe beamed. He probably was better with a bow than any of the warriors in Kabir’s battalion, but in fairness, he hadn’t seen any archers, mostly just grapplers and axe-wielders. And the javelin guy, but you can only toss a polearm with so much precision. “Yeah, I was in the Blue Lions, er, the Kingdom class in the Academy. My professor taught me a lot of things I’m sure I wouldn’t have figured out otherwise.” Like tactics. But, well, Ashe still isn’t great with tactics, in all honesty. “But before that, I learned from my brother.”

Almost ten years ago now… It was nearly overwhelming to even think about how much the world had changed since then. A decade - half of Ashe’s life at this point, so maybe it wasn’t so crazy how different things had become. A decade ago, he passed his afternoons a dozen meters in front of a target with Christophe’s hands on his shoulders, steadying him as he aimed. A decade ago, he and Lonato were still alive.

But they’re not fully gone, not really. Ashe still had his memories of them and that peaceful springtime. He still had Christophe’s tricks with his bow and lance in the back of his mind, and all the stories Christophe ever told him of the knights. 

“You have siblings?” A few squirrels raced across the path, crunching over the leaves.

“A little brother and sister. They’re twins. My older brother passed away, but he was the one who taught me.”

“My condolences.” Kabir stared down the path, “And my apologies. I do not mean to dredge up unpleasant memories..”

“No, it’s alright. That was… seven years ago now.” Ashe smiled, “I miss him, but I don’t want to forget him either.”

“What was he like, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Kind… Brave and noble. He was like a knight out of a storybook. To me, I suppose.” Ashe chuckled, “He was so good at heart. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.”

And it hit him. Now, at 20, he was older than Christophe had been when he was executed. Ashe was more grown than he’d ever been. Or ever would be. Hah… He used to think Christophe was an adult, and that he had everything together. He always knew where to go and what to do - what to say to the guards in Castle Gaspard to rally them, and how to handle Ashe and his siblings to cheer them up or settle them down. But… Well, he was supposed to be an adult now, and he didn’t feel anything like that!

Maybe that was meant to be the lesson, though. Maybe, for all his grace and unshakeable surety, Christophe was also just figuring things out as he went, just like Ashe. The world was so much more chaotic than Ashe had ever expected by watching his lead. Especially now, in times of war, things constantly changed around. He did as much as he could, but he never quite felt like he had it all together, at least, not like he thought he would. Though he lacked Christophe’s composure, in the end, he’d still helped people.

Maybe that’s enough.

As Ashe looked to Kabir, he noticed a strange red spot in the corner of his vision. Imperial soldiers!

“Kabir!” Ashe warned in a hushed whisper, “I see soldiers up ahead, Imperial scouts, I think.” Three men huddled around a small campfire, idly chatting and watching as a few rabbits roasted on a spit. Three horses grazed nearby, loosely hitched to a few thin trees in the clearing. Hardly any cover, a terrible place to make camp, unless you’re just asking to be spotted.

“Hm,” Kabir followed his gaze, studying the three men on horseback for a moment. “You are quite perceptive. However, those are not Imperial soldiers.” Kabir gave his warhorse a kick and trotted into the woods towards the not-soldier soldiers. 

“H-hey, wait!” Ashe called out, turning Buttermilk to follow. He readied his bow anyway.

“Come.” Kabir brushed aside a branch, helping them through. “What do you notice about these men?”

“Ah…” Ashe thought for a moment. Was this a test? He didn’t have the answers, but he could guess. “Looks like there’s three of them. Two have lances, but they’re… They’re only iron, so maybe they’re low ranking? The other one has a sword and a bow. The bow looks well kept.” Perhaps he was thinking too tactically. “They’re wearing red.”

“And what is strange about that?” Strange? Hmm… Ashe thought for a while. The weaponry didn’t seem typical of Imperial soldiers, actually, and if they were scouts - oh!

“Imperial scouts always travel in groups of two, don’t they?”

“Correct.” Kabir smiled, a rare ray of light. “With a closer eye, you may notice that the buckles on their saddlebags are bronze, not iron. This is a meeting point we have used in the past. Still, we will be cautious. Keep your bow close at hand.”

Ashe nodded his assent, readying his bow. Though he avoided battle as often as possible, in wartime, the woods held enemies around every corner. He kept a mental tally of his own weapons in case things went south. The bow in his hands, seventeen steel-tipped arrows, the handaxe hanging at his left side, and, if he really got desperate, the worn iron fishing spear strapped to the saddlebags. Kabir’s warhorse was much stronger and sturdier, but not as fast as Buttermilk. The strangers’ horses looked somewhere in between. If things got bad, then a chase wouldn’t go in their favor, so they’d have to make a final stand. 

It was kind of morbid how easily Ashe’s mind slipped into that odd sort of trance these days - all tactics, odds, and survival. But that’s what the world had become, right? Trust is important - vital even - but there’s no use being optimistic. Not to strangers. So yes, it’s essential to size up the battlefield and plan for the worst. Four years ago, he’d be lost with this sort of thing. Even if he had to, Ashe never wanted to fight dirty or use desperation tactics. But it’s a different world. He’s alive. He made a note to thank Annette for teaching him proper tactics, and the streets of Gaspard for teaching him the rest.

“Fair tidings, travelers?” Kabir’s voice pierced through the clearing as they slowly approached from the treeline. The three ‘scouts’ turned their heads.

“Fair tidings.” The archer looked up from the campfire, not nearly as startled as he probably should have been. His eyes landed on Kabir, analyzing the two of them for a moment. He gestured to one of his men. 

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” One of the cavaliers spoke up. Hmm, that’s… Odd. Why did that sound so…

“Well, what do we have here?” 

_Smuggler._

Ah! Ashe’s hand tightened around his bow. Thieves’ tongue! That man - or these men - must be criminals of some sort. Though, they didn’t look particularly hostile. In fact, they seemed almost… relaxed?

“And how are your mother’s hydrangeas?” Kabir’s hand rested lazily on the hilt of the axe strapped across his shoulders.

“Blue.” The archer answered. Kabir nodded, riding further into the clearing. That part wasn’t thieves’ tongue, but it was obviously some sort of codeword. Ashe rode close behind him.

“Welcome, brothers. How was the border? Not too dangerous, I hope.”

“Not as dangerous as it’s been of late, seems forces on the south end have pulled back.” The archer picked through his saddlebags, “Seems like more scouts in the northern forests, though. Buggers nearly caught us near Fhirdiad. City’s a mess, looks like.” He came up with a few papers.

“Aye, that would make sense.” Kabir took the papers and scanned over them. Scouting reports, from what Ashe could see. Then, he reached into his own saddlebag, quickly producing a thick stack of letters bound with hemp twine. “Our forces attacked Fhirdiad some weeks ago. Details are in the letters, as always, but to be brief, we attacked on the suspicion that one of our men was being held hostage after intercepting a scout carrying a note from Raven to Eagle. He was rescued, but not without losses.”

“Must’ve been an important guy, attacking the capital head-on.”

Kabir nodded. “The mission was intended to be quiet, but our stealth was compromised when we encountered a strange machine inside the gates. A magical automaton of sorts. We weren’t able to study it closely, but my men were able to take one down after finding a weak spot. In any case, Fhirdiad is overrun with dark mages. We weakened their defenses, but I can’t say what they might be planning.”

“I’ll make sure Gautier gets the reports.” Ah, the merchant had mentioned something about trading reports across the border. He took the bundle of letters, slipping it into his saddlebags. Kabir nodded, and the three began to break camp. The journey back to Gautier would be a long one, especially if they headed south to cross the border. Hmm, south...

“Ah, wait!” Ashe spoke up. “If you’re heading south, could you pass a letter along for me as well? I can’t pay, but…” He took a breath, steeling himself. “Well, if you find yourself fishin’ on the south shore, I know a willow you can rest by - even got milk and eggs.”

_If you’re taking the Smuggler’s Loop south, I know a safe house where you can lay low and restock._

Ashe bit his lip, hoping that simple knowledge would be enough to offer and that it’d come across as he intended. He’d spoken with a few thieves and the like since war broke out, but still, he hoped nothing had been lost in translation. Even so, they could always say no - it might be too risky. The smuggler and archer exchanged a silent glance.

“Hm.” He nodded. “Can do.”

Relieved, Ashe let out the breath he’d been holding. He quickly scribbled a note on a bit of parchment.

_Rowan and Hazel,_

_I might not be back for some time, but please don’t worry! I found what I was looking for. I can’t say much more than that right now. Keep each other safe, don’t do anything reckless!_

_I love you both,_

_Ashe_

* * *

Hm. The house had a good foundation, but little more. It would take some work to restore the small cabin into a true home. The walls were built to be sturdy, though, over time, some of the wooden panels had splintered at the edges and warped away from their crossed support beams. Thick lumber columns supported a roof of simple thatch over wooden shingles. The floors were a patchwork mix of clay tiles and neatly laid wooden planks, some cracked or weathered by moons of exposure to the elements. All things considered, the bones of the house stood strong, though it was empty of any heart.

Winter would be upon them soon. This far north, the first snow would arrive near the end of Wyvern Moon, or as late as the beginning of Red Wolf Moon if they were lucky. With supplies, the roof could be easily patched, but not today. Dedue’s bones ached at the thought of hammering new thatch shingles into the roof. Tomorrow, perhaps. 

With Riya’s begrudging help, the two of them had managed to sweep away most of the dust and crisp leaves that had blown in through the roof. Dedue took stock of the place. Even with Riya’s gracious additions, the cabin felt empty. Cozy, but lacking all the things that raised a house into a home. Most of the footage was taken up by a small living room, complete with a stonework fireplace and rough, worn sitting cushions. The living room blended seamlessly into a small, but well-outfitted kitchen. A steel grate rested over a small fire pit used for cooking. The floor and walls were lined with clay tiles to ensure the stove didn’t blaze out of control. Beside the stove, there were a few stone countertops - enough room for two cooks, if they did not mind a small squeeze.

Beyond those two rooms lay a small, empty room with an equally empty battered bookcase. Perhaps it had been a bedroom or a study of some sort, once. The blank walls gave little indication. The outer wall held a thick wooden door on one side, and a small, shuttered window on the other. While open, the shutters revealed a magnificent view of the nearby shore, but the cold air seeped in rather quickly, so Dedue kept it shut. In the summer, though, it might be quite lovely. He would not stay long enough to see it.

Outside, through the heavy door in the back, a simple stone path led into a small garden. Three soil beds were sectioned off from the rest of the clearing with a makeshift fence of branches and thick twine. The fence was too short to block pesky deer from grazing on the tops of flowers and grassier plants, though Dedue supposed it was the sentiment of the thing. 

Many moons must have passed since the garden was last planted. With the chill of winter approaching, it would be some time before Dedue could replant the garden with flowers, but he could sow hardier winter seeds when the cold took. For now, though, he would need to do something about the wild overgrowth. As tempting as it may have been to take a scythe to the tall weeds, Dedue was no such man.

In all things, patience. Dedue knelt before the first bed of soil, plucking the tall grasses away. One errant weed at a time, he would pull them up by the roots. Bit by bit, the garden would clear, with time. Be still, anxious flutterings, for time marches on. The sun will set, and the moon will rise, come even the steepest of tides or the thickest of fogs. For now, all Dedue could do was wait.

The sun proudly flashed its last cinnabar rays of light across the hills, a warning for all the townsfolk to hurry home and greet the night with woolen blankets and a crackling fire. Dedue had nearly made his way through the second bed of soil when the door creaked open.

"You're awake." A soft, honey-sweet voice flowed from the door. Ashe stood in the doorway, not clad in dreamlike silks, but in leather armor and a traveler’s cloak, blue as the sky. He was breathtaking, his very presence intoxicating. If Ashe’s smile was smaller, it had not lost its warmth. If his hair was longer, it had not lost its shine. If he departed from Dedue’s dreams, then it was only because Dedue could not have dreamed something so perfect.

* * *

“You’re awake.” Ashe leaned on the doorway, anxiously picking at a piece of splintering wood. He seemed much more awake than the last time he saw him - Ashe regretted not being at Dedue’s side when he woke, but maybe that was the right thing to do? Riya probably appreciated the space, and Kabir seemed to trust him an ounce more now. Ashe should say something else, explain himself, maybe, but… Well, he didn’t even know where to begin! 

Luckily, he didn’t have to. Dedue looked up from the flowerbeds, a few strands of coarse hair slipping loose from the rest now tied into a thin ponytail. He brushed a few flecks of dirt off his forearms. When Dedue finally met his eyes, his subtle smile was bright as the dawn. Goddess...

“You are here.” And with those three simple words, all the tension seemed to drain from Ashe’s shoulders. Dedue tugged the last stray weeds from the flowerbed into a rough hemp basket. Every waking moment, Ashe had wondered if he should pinch himself - if, still, this was some crazy dream. Yet standing here, now, before him, Ashe’s knees felt a little too weak, his chest felt a little too bubbly, voice a little too breathless for this to be anything his own mind could conjure. 

Glassy, golden waves swayed onto the shore, lit by the sunset. Dedue’s hair shone a pale pink color in the late light. He heard the quiet, secret words tucked into Dedue’s smile, those for only him to hear. For a moment, everything seemed so peaceful. Beautiful serenity drowned out all the forgotten words, all the moons passed alone. Dedue’s bandages shifted as he moved to stand.

Ah! Standing! Goddess, get it together Ashe! He hurried over to help him up. Though a bit wobbly, Dedue managed to climb to his feet with Ashe’s help. 

“Thank you.” Dedue wrapped an arm around his waist, steadying himself for a moment. A chilly breeze cut through the air. Though Ashe hated the thought of leaving his embrace, it would only get colder as the sun set.

“Let’s head inside.” Ashe shivered as he pulled Dedue’s arm over his shoulder to take on some of his weight. All the things he should say, and his thoughts simply jumbled around inside his head, blocking anything coherent from actually making their way out through his lips. Though, maybe that was just the cold, right?

Dedue nodded. The two slowly made their way inside to the kitchen. Dedue rinsed away the soil from his hands and face in a small wooden basin. Ashe rummaged through his pack for a flint and a thin bar of steel. With a few sparks, the stone fireplace glowed with tiny, budding flames. Warm air began to swirl through the room, but those woolen blankets still looked pretty tempting!

Ashe pulled a small woven basket of goods from the corner where he’d tucked his supplies. Buttermilk was safe in nice, covered stables with plenty of hay, but he’d brought her saddlebags to the cabin for now. They’d need some supplies to cook, after all!

“Um, if you’re not too tired, I brought some food. I was thinking - if you’re up to it, I mean - we could cook something together?” He toyed with a fraying hemp thread sticking out from the weave. Goddess, he shouldn’t be so nervous, but Dedue might be too tired. And that would be understandable, of course!

But the first home -cooked meal in a new home was important, wasn’t it? It had always been a tradition for Ashe. With his siblings, and even with their parents long before, whenever they moved place, or when they opened the restaurant, the first meal had to be special! They couldn’t always afford something nice to splurge on, but cooking together was really the more important part. The food wouldn’t last as long as the memories they made breaking in their new homes. 

Ah, Ashe really shouldn’t be thinking of this place as his home, but… It sounded nice, didn’t it? Living with Dedue, tucked away on the peaceful coast, watching the waves roll by… It sounded straight out of a lovely dream, really. Or, um, a particularly mushy epilogue to a knight’s tale. Ashe had lived in motion since the start of the war. Everything constantly changed: borders, alliances, safe towns and roads to travel. Dreaming of peace and stillness seemed so far away. Ashe would treasure it for now, however long it may last.

“Let us cook, then.” Dedue peered into the basket, noting the ingredients. It wasn’t much, and nothing exotic. They would only be cooking for two, after all. The rest of his hunt had gone towards the communal stores and pots, traded in for small portions of a few vegetables. He kept a small cut of venison, a few carrots, two stalks of celery, three potatoes, and an onion. Of course, the real flavor would come from the spices, Ashe knew that well enough by now. A tiny satchel held a few bay leaves, a pinch of dried oregano, a couple of cloves of garlic, and ground black pepper - Riya’s contributions.

“Lamb stew, nothing too fancy!” Ashe pulled two thick daggers from his pack and set them beside his simple cooking set, though it looked like the kitchen was already outfitted with a proper stew pot. Maybe it was one of Riya’s? 

“Oh, but I did have something else, too!” He produced the small burlap pouch he’d set aside for Dedue on the hunt. “I was thinking we could also have some tea if you wanted.” Ashe untied the pouch and carefully emptied its contents onto the counter. A few rough, wood-like stalks rolled onto the counter, filling the air with a mild, lemony scent.

“Lemongrass.” Dedue’s lips curled up into a small smile. “You remembered?” Gods above, he shouldn’t be allowed to look at him like that - all sweet emerald eyes and quiet amusement. Ashe nearly forgot to breathe for a moment.

“O-of course!” Ashe stammered. He busied himself with peeling off the outermost woody skins. Though years had passed, his memories at the academy with Dedue were some of his happiest. He might miss details as time slowly eroded away the sharp colors and feelings, but he could never forget the way he felt.

As Ashe set about making the tea, Dedue started to cut the venison and potatoes in rough, hearty slices. While the kettle warmed, Ashe quickly diced the rest of the vegetables. A familiar silence slipped over them. In a way, it was just like old times. Ashe had cooked with others along his journey, innkeepers and the like, but none ever felt so comfortable as Dedue. Whenever he turned to add the next ingredients, Ashe was ready with the herbs and vegetables already portioned out. Of course, it was only venison stew, not some incredibly complicated recipe like some of the things they’d baked at the monastery. There was so little to mess up, even Flayn might have been able to manage - _might have_.

The kettle quickly came to a boil, screeching from the distant fireplace. Ashe dropped a few stalks of lemongrass into the boiling water, half-crushed on the flat of his blade, along with a few thick slices of ginger and a clump of dried tea leaves. Okay, Flayn could _definitely_ manage this one. Right? Hopefully?

“How are you feeling, Dedue?” Ashe murmured, voice gentle. He leaned against the small kitchen island, taking a quiet moment to appreciate the cloud of aromatics drifting off his pan. Dedue hadn’t lost his touch, it seemed. Or, it smelled, he supposed. No, that sounded too strange.

“Better than I must look.”

“I don’t know, I’d say you look pretty good for a man I thought was dead.” Ashe teased, though the words were true enough. He tried not to think about that bit too much.

“I could say the same.” He rumbled. His voice was steady, but Ashe could hear the telltale hint of one of his small smiles. “What brought you so far north?” Dedue stirred the venison, onions, and garlic around the bottom of the pot, browning them evenly. “I have heard the resistance has fallen back, you must have traveled quite far through Empire lands.”

“I was looking for… Hmm.” Ashe deemed the tea ready and poured each of them a steaming mug - teacups were too delicate for his journey. “Well, I know this might sound strange, but I wanted to see the flowers of Duscur. I… I thought they might remind me of you. So I guess, in a way, I was looking for you.” The woolen blankets looked so very cozy… Ashe broke and settled on top of his bedroll in the living room, basking in the warmth of the fireplace.

“You have found me.” Dedue poured a jug of water into the pot, adding in the very last spices and vegetables. The last ingredient was time. The tastiest things are never quick to make, are they? Ashe didn’t mind the downtime, though. Dedue joined him on the bedroll, sipping his tea. Crackling fire filled the silence for a moment. “My apologies for… vanishing. It is quite a long story.”

“I have time.” Ashe ran a thumb along Dedue’s jaw, smiling up at him. “But that also means I have time to wait. You don’t need to tell me everything now. And, um, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to either. I don’t want to put you through all that again, alright? I’m just glad to have you back.”

He nodded. “Some details are… unclear. His Highness is alive. Or, he was, before I was taken captive.”

“They said he was executed...” Ashe frowned. They never showed the body, did they? It had felt so pointless to hope that their king had lived, but if what Dedue said was true, maybe he really had! But even if he hadn’t fallen at Cornelia’s hands, this part of the Kingdom - the Dukedom, he meant - was rife with Empire sympathists.

“With Duke Fraldarius’s help, I freed him from Fhirdiad a few days after the Dukedom announced his death. I do not know what they intended for him, but when I rescued him, he…” Dedue was silent for a moment. He didn’t shudder, exactly, but Ashe knew that look, the slight twist in his brow as he shut his eyes, - it must have been bad. Really bad. “He looked shaken. I freed him from the castle, but I do not know how far he could have made it in his state. If the rebels have had no news of him, I fear…”

“We can’t know for certain.” Ashe bit his lip. The odds looked bad, but then, they always had, hadn’t they? “But…”

_What happened to you?_

The question hung in the air, unspoken, but undeniably heard.

“I was too injured to escape with him, so they took me in his stead.” Dedue’s hands shook. He took another sip from his mug before setting on the stonework guarding the fire. 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say any more than that.” Ashe took one of his hands, tracing looping patterns into his palm, still warm from the tea.

“The Empire had some vested interest in me, or my body, by their words.”

“I… That’s an alarming thing to say, Dedue.” Ashe turned fully towards him. “What do you mean by ‘your body’? If they wanted to kill you, it seems like they had the time and means to do so.”

“I do not know. It is something Hubert mentioned.”

“Hubert?!” Ashe gasped, “From the Black Eagles house Hubert? Edelgard’s retainer Hubert?” Dark mages in Fhirdiad, as per Kabir’s reports… What were they doing there?

“I…” Dedue gently cradled Ashe’s cheek in his hand, thumbing over the freckles on his cheekbones. “He told me they had killed you.”

“They didn’t.” Ashe set his tea aside and leaned into the touch, carefully lacing his own fingers through Dedue’s. “I’m safe, I promise.”

“If they found you, they would have done worse.” Dedue’s voice strained, cracking. “It is dangerous for you here, with me.”

“Everywhere is dangerous, Dedue.” He laughed, just a touch too bitter for a moment. Some highborn conflict, too far removed for most commoners to ever think about, had torn Fodlan apart, and for what? An exercise in politics and strife? “Edelgard has allies all across Fodlan, even in the Alliance.” A considering silence bloomed between them for a moment. “I know it’s dangerous, but…” ‘But I can’t live without you’, he wanted to say…

Ashe smiled. “I’d say I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

Gentle, chapped lips covered his own. For a single moment, utterly divorced from time, Ashe felt like he was floating. Lemongrass danced over his tongue. His hands found their way around Dedue’s shoulders, tugging him ever closer as his eyes slid shut. He’d imagined Dedue’s touch time and time again over the past moons, but clearly, his dreams couldn’t even _hold a candle_ to his real warmth and weight. 

“Where did that come from?” Ashe pulled away with a breathless laugh, burying his face into Dedue’s collar. His heart leapt into his throat, his chest pattering on like an antsy fawn. Suddenly, all of his worries and hesitation felt so silly in the face of Dedue’s honest affections. His love hadn’t faded at all, and Dedue was nothing if not steadfast.

“My apologies, I could not help myself.” Strong arms coiled around his waist, pulling him close. He smelled of salt and earth, and the garlic on his hands. 

“Goddess, I missed you so much.” Ashe sighed, content to soak him in.

“I returned to you.” And he had. After all these years, he'd kept his promise, despite all the moons in between.

“You did. Please don’t leave again?” Ashe mumbled. “I… I couldn’t bear it.”

“I will not.” Dedue lay back on the bedroll to rest his undoubtedly weary muscles. Once he finished his tea, Ashe joined him. It was a pretty tight squeeze, sure, but later, they could unbutton the side and spread out under the woolen blankets. For now, Ashe curled into his tunic, careful not to put too much weight on his chest.

“So this is home, huh?” Ashe glanced up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. Perhaps a tree had fallen through the roof? Or maybe it was an unfortunate wyvern landing - he’d seen a few fliers with the rest of the scouts. He didn’t take to them as easily as some of the others at the academy, but the Professor had given him a few flying lessons. When you got right down to it, they were really only huge, scaly dogs. Petra’s, which she named after a word in the Brigid language he couldn’t quite say, was particularly fond of lamb chops. Maybe one had sniffed something irresistible in the house? Hopefully not, or else Dedue’s cooking would quickly become a problem.

“If we can repair the roof by the first snow, Riya says it is ours.” Ours, he said. Ashe’s heart shot into the sky.

A dozen tiny stars twinkled through the crater in the roof. Thin lances of starlight shone down into the living room, lost in the warm glow from the hearth. The open night sky reminded Ashe of the many nights he’d camped along the road in his journeys, but the warmth at his side, the steamy aroma of stew simmering in the kitchen was far too cozy for his life of constant motion. This really was home, wasn’t it?

Or, it would be, with a few needed patches. Maybe they could keep the starlight? Cold air seeped in through the gap in the shingles, but the view was so nice - maybe they could put some kind of window up there eventually. Ashe began to make a list of all the things they’d do to make it a real home, not just a house. The roof, of course. The kitchen was too bare, and they’d need a proper bed. The bookshelf in the empty room was missing a leg, and the front door hung a smidge crooked… 

“Well, I guess we’d better get started, then.”

Goddess, they’d have their work cut out for them, but with Dedue by his side, that didn’t really seem so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashedue week is next week! I'll be posting a few pieces then, and a few afterwards, probably. :)  
> I hope you're all staying safe and entertained. I'm lucky that my area hasn't been too crazy, but it's definitely a weird time to live through.  
> I have a lot of alternative/online exams and projects after next week, so this might not update until late into next month, but in the meantime, I'm sure we'll all be blessed with plenty of Ashedue fics c:

**Author's Note:**

> We're back! This won't update as frequently because I'm taking some hard courses this semester, but I'm excited to keep writing for this story, so don't worry about it never finishing :)
> 
> Welcome back to anyone, returning or new! This story is a continuation of Violette, so parts of that story will be relevant, but this part will focus on other themes. ~~Like 20k words of exposition~~. Comments are always appreciated, and I hope you're as excited as I am for what might happen next!
> 
> Come say hi on Twitter :)  
> [@hanatamagos](https://twitter.com/hanatamagos)


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